THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


:s  h 


WTHERN  BRANCH 
UNIVERSITY  <  -  CALIFORNt* 
LIBRARY 

LOS  ANGELES.  CAU1F. 


t--  »..'<,  ,d-v    <^"* 


THE  STORY  OF  A  ROUND-HOUSE 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  -SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THE  STORY  OF 

A  ROUND-HOUSE  AND 

OTHER  POEMS 


BY 
JOHN   MASEFIELD 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY" 
"THE  WIDOW  IN  THE  BYE  STREET,"  ETC. 

2.  7  ^  ^  S 


NEW  AND   REVISED  EDITION 


If  0tfe 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1913 

Att  rlghti  reserved 


COPTBIGHT,  1912  and  1913, 
BT  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  November, 
New  and  revised  edition,  June,  1913. 


G  1  7  3 


J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


t  G  2w  5 
A\  i,  n  s 

CONTENTS 


MM 

DAUBER 1 

BIOGRAPHY     . 165 

Ships       .         .        .  -      .        .        ,         .        .        .188 

Truth 197 

They  closed  her  Eyes 199 

The  Harp 205 

I  saw  the  Ramparts 206 

That  Blessed  Sunlight 208 

Song 210 

The  Ballad  of  Sir  Bors 212 

Spanish  Waters       .         .        .    -  .        .        .        .215 

Cargoes 220 

Captain  Stratton's  Fancy 222 

An  Old  Song  re-sung 225 

St.  Mary's  Bells 227 

London  Town 229 

The  Emigrant ".        .232 

Port  of  Holy  Peter 234 

Beauty 237 

The  Seekers 238 

Prayer 241 

Dawn 243 

Laugh  and  be  Merry 244 

June  Twilight          .        .        .        ....        .246 

Roadways        .        .    '    .         .        .  .         .    248 

Midsummer  Night  .         .         .         .         .         .         .    250 

The  Harper's  Song  .         .         .         .      '  .         .         .252 

The  Gentle  Lady 254 

The  Dead  Knight 255 


VI  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Sorrow  of  Mydath 257 

Twilight 259 

Invocation 260 

Posted  as  Missing 261 

A  Creed 263 

When  Bony  Death 266 

The  West  Wind 268 

Her  Heart 271 

Being  her  Friend 273 

Fragments 274 

Born  for  Nought  Else 278 

Tewkesbury  Road 280 

The  Death  Rooms    .......  282 

Ignorance 284 

Sea  Fever 286 

The  Watch  in  the  Wood 288 

C.  L.  M 291 

Waste 293 

Third  Mate 295 

The  Wild  Duck 298 

Christmas,  1903 300 

The  Word                                                                      ,  302 


THE   STORY   OF  A  ROUND-HOUSE 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


DAUBER 

I 

FOUR  bells  were  struck,  the  watch  was  called 

on  deck, 

All  work  aboard  was  over  for  the  hour, 
And    some    men    sang    and    others    played 

at  check, 
Or  mended  clothes  or  watched  the  sunset 

glower. 

The    bursting    west    was    like    an    opening 

Ir" 
flower, 

And  one  man  watched  it  till  the  light  was 

dim, 
But  no  one  went  across  to  talk  to  him.      t^ 

He  was  the  painter  in  that  swift  ship's 
crew,  <*=• 

Lampman  and  painter  —  tall,  a  •  slight-burl  t 
man,  \  _ 


2  DAUBER 

Young  for  his  years,  and  not  yet  twenty- 
two;  &* 

Sickly,  and  not  yet  brown  with  the  sea's  tan.   * 

Bullied   and   damned   at   since   the   voyage 
began, 

"  Being    neither   man    nor    seaman    by    his  . 
tally,"         <^ 

He  bunked  with  the  idlers  just  abaft  th£ 
galley. 

His  work  began  at  five ;  he  worked  all  day, 
Keeping  no  watch  and  having  all  night  in. 
His  work  was  what  the  mate  might  care  to 

say; 

He  mixed  red  lead  in  many  a  bouilli  tin ; 
His  dungarees  were  smeared  with  paraffin. 
"Go  drown  himself"  his  round-house  mates 

advised  him, 
And  all  hands  called  him   " Dauber"   and 

despised  him. 


DAUBER  3 

Si,  the  apprentice,  stood  beside  the  spar, 
Stripped  to  the  waist,  a  basin  at  his  side, 
Slushing  his  hands  to  get  away  the  tar, 

And  then  he  washed  himself  and  rinsed  and 

•G 

dried; 

Towelling    his    face,    hair-towzelled,    eager 

AJ 
eyed, 

He  crossed  the  spar  to  Dauber,  and  there 

stood 
Watching  the  gold  of  heaven  turn  to  blood. 

They  stood  there  by  the  rail  while  the  swift 

^C- 

ship 
Tore  on  out  of  the  tropics,   straining  her 

j 

sheets, 

o 

Whitening  her  trackway  to  a  milky  strip, 

Dim  with  green  bubbles  and  twisted  water 

Jo 
meets, 

Her  clacking    tackle    tugged    at    pins    and 
cleats, 


4  DA  UBEB 

Her  great  sails  bellied  stiff,  her  great  masts 

leaned : 
They  watched  how  the  seas  struck  and  burst 

and  greened. 

Si    talked    with    Dauber,    standing   by   the 

side.   ^ 
"Why  did  you  come  to  sea,  painter?"  he 

said. 

"I  want  to  be  a  painter,"  he  replied, 
"And  know  the  sea  and  ships  from  A  to  Z, 
And  paint  great  ships  at  sea  before  I'm  dead ; 
Ships    under    skysails    running    down    the 

Trade  - 
Ships    and    the    sea;  there's    nothing    finer 

made. 

"But  there's  so  much  to  learn,  with  sails 

and  ropes, 
And  how  the  sails  look,  full  or  being  furled, 


DAUBER  5 

And  how  the  lights  change  in  the  troughs 

and  slopes, 
And   the   sea's   colours   up   and   down   the 

world, 
And  how  a  storm  looks  when  the  sprays 

are  hurled 

High  as  the  yard  (they  say)  I  want  to  see ; 
There's  none  ashore  can  teach  such  things 

to  me. 


"And  then  the  men  and  rigging,  and  the  way 
Ships  move,   running  or  beating,   and   the 

poise 

At  the  roll's  end,  the  checking  in  the  sway  — 
I  want  to  paint  them  perfect,  short  of  the 

noise ; 

And  then  the  life,  the  half-decks  full  of  boys, 
The  fo'c'sles  with  the  men  there,  dripping 

wet: 
I  know  the  subjects  that  I  want  to  get. 


6  DAUBER 

[fs  not  been  done,  the  sea,  not  yet  been 

done, 

From  the  inside,  by  one  who  really  knows ; 
I'd  give  up  all  if  I  could  be  the  one, 
But   art   comes   dear   the   way   the   money 

goes. 

So  I  have  come  to  sea,  and  I  suppose 
Three  years  will  teach  me  all  I  want  to  learn 
And  make  enough  to  keep  me  till  I  earn." 


Even  as  he  spoke  his  busy  pencil 

W  "~~ 

Drawing  the  leap  of  water  off  the  side 
Where    the    great    clipper    trampled    iron- 

hooved, 

Making  the  blue  hills  of  the  sea  divide, 
Shearing  a  glittering  scatter  in  her  stride, 
And  leaping  on  full  tilt  with  all  sails  draw- 
ing, 

Proud  as  a  war-horse,  snuffing  battle,  paw- 
ing. 


DAUBER  1 

"I  cannot  get  it  yet  —  not  yet,"  he  said; 
"That  leap  and  light,  and  sudden  change 

to  green, 

And  all  the  glittering  from  the  sunset's  red, 
And   the   milky   colours   where   the   bursts 

have  been, 

And  then  the  Dipper  striding  like  a  queen 

/? 
Over  it  all,  all  beauty  to  the  crown. 

I  see  it  all,  I  cannot  put  it  down. 


"It's   hard   not   to    be   able.     There,    look    \ 

there ! 

I  cannot  get  the  movement  nor  the  light; 
Sometimes  it  almost  makes  a  man  despair 
To  try  and  try  and  never  get  it  right. 
Oh,  if  I  could  —  oh,  if  I  only  might, 
I   wouldn't   mind   what  hells   I'd   have   to 

pass, 
Not  if  the  whole  world  called  me  fool  and 

ass." 


8  DAUBER 

Down  sank  the  crimson  sun  into  the  sea, 

The  wind  cut  chill  at  once,  the  west  grew 
dun. 

"Out  sidelights!"  called  the  mate.  "Hi, 
where  is  he?" 

The  Boatswain  called,  "Out  sidelights,  damn 
you!  Run!" 

"He's  always  late  or  lazing,"  murmured 
one  — 

"The  Dauber,  with  his  sketching."  Soon 
the  tints 

Of  red  and  green  passed  on  dark  water- 
glints. 

Darker  it  grew,  still  darker,  and  the  stars 
Burned  golden,  and  the  fiery  fishes  came. 
The  wire-note  loudened  from  the  straining 

spars ; 
The   sheet-blocks   clacked   together   always 

the  same; 


D  A  UBER  9 

The  rushing  fishes  streaked  the  seas  with 

flame, 

Racing  the  one  speed  noble  as  their  own : 
What  unknown  joy  was  in  those  fish  un- 
known ! 

Just  by  the  round-house  door,  as  it  grew  dark, 
The   Boatswain   caught   the    Dauber   with, 

"Now,  you; 
Till  now  I've  spared  you,  damn  you !  now 

you  hark : 

I've  just  had  hell  for  what  you  didn't  do; 
I'll  have  you  broke  and  sent  among  the 

crew  \Jlr 

If  you  get  me  more  trouble  by  a  particle.     JO 
Don't    you    forget,    you    daubing,    useless 

article ! 

"You  thing,  you  twice-laid  thing  from  Port 
Mahon!" 


10  DAUBER 

Then  came  the  Cook's  "Is  that  the  Dauber 

there  ? 
Why  don't  you  leave  them  stinking  paints 

alone  ? 

They  stink  the  house  out,  poisoning  all  the  air. 
Just   take  them  out."     "Where  to?"     "I 

don't  care  where. 
I  won't  have  stinking  paint  here."     From 

their  plates : 
"That's  right;     wet   paint   breeds  fever/' 

growled  his  mates. 

He  took  his  still  wet  drawings  from  the 

berth 
And  climbed  the  ladder  to  the  deck-house 

top; 

Beneath,  the  noisy  half-deck  rang  with  mirth, 
For  two  ship's  boys  were    putting  on  the 

strop : 
One,  clambering  up  to  let  the  skylight  drop, 


DAUBER  11 

Saw  him  bend  down  beneath  a  boat  and  lay 
His  drawings  there,  till  all  were  hid  away, 

And  stand  there  silent,  leaning  on  the  boat, 
Watching  the  constellations  rise  and  burn, 
Until  the  beauty  took  him  by  the  throat, 
So  stately  is  their  glittering  overturn ; 
Armies  of  marching  eyes,  armies  that  yearn 
With  banners  rising  and  falling,  and  pass- 
ing by 
Over  the  empty  silence  of  the  sky. 

The  Dauber  sighed  there  looking  at  the  sails, 
Wind-steadied  arches  leaning  on  the  night, 
The  high  trucks  traced  on  heaven  and  left 

no  trails; 
The   moonlight   made   the   topsails   almost 

white, 
The  passing  sidelight  seemed  to  drip  green 

light. 


12  DA  UBER 

And  on  the  clipper  rushed  with  fire-bright 

bows; 
He  sighed,  "I'll  never  do't,"  and  left  the 

house. 


"Now,"  said  the  reefer,  "up  !    Come,  Sam; 

come,  Si, 
Dauber's  been  hiding  something."    Up  they 

slid, 

Treading  on  naked  tiptoe  stealthily 
To  grope  for  treasure  at  the  long-boat  skid. 
"Drawings!"    said    Sam.     "Is    this    what 

Dauber  hid? 

Lord !    I  expected  pudding,  not  this  rot. 
Still,  come,  we'll  have  some  fun  with  what 

we've  got." 

They   smeared    the    paint  with   turpentine 

until 
They  could  remove  with  mess-clouts  every 

trace 


DAUBER  13 

Of    quick    perception    caught    by    patient 

skill, 
And  lines  that  had  brought  blood  into  his 

face. 

They  wiped  the  pigments  off,  and  did  erase, 
With  knives,  all  sticking  clots.     When  they 

had  done. 
Under  the  boat  they  laid  them  every  one. 

All  he  had  drawn  since  first  he  came  to  sea, 
His  six  weeks'  leisure  fruits,  they  laid  them 

there. 
They    chuckled    then    to    think    how    mad 

he'd  be 

Finding  his  paintings  vanished  into  air. 
Eight    bells    were    struck,    and    feet    from 

everywhere 

Went  shuffling  aft  to  muster  in  the  dark; 
The  mate's  pipe  glowed  above,  a  dim  red 

spark. 


14  DAUBER 

Names  in  the  darkness  passed  and  voices 

cried ; 
The  red  spark  glowed  and  died,  the  faces 

seemed 
As  things  remembered  when    a    brain   has 

died, 

To  all  but  high  intenseness  deeply  dreamed. 
Like  hissing  spears  the  fishes'  fire  streamed, 
And  on  the  clipper  rushed  with  tossing 

mast, 
A  bath  of  flame  broke  round  her  as  she 

passed. 

The  watch  was  set,  the  night  came,  and 

the  men 
Hid  from  the  moon  in  shadowed  nooks  to 

sleep, 
Bunched  like  the  dead;  still,  like  the  dead, 

as  when 
Plague  in  a  city  leaves  none  even  to  weep. 


DAUBER  15 

The  ship's  track  brightened  to  a  mile- 
broad  sweep; 

The  mate  there  felt  her  pulse,  and  eyed 
the  spars : 

South-west  by  south  she  staggered  under 
the  stars. 

Down  in  his  bunk  the  Dauber  lay  awake 
Thinking  of  his  unfitness  for  the  sea. 
Each  failure,  each  derision,  each  mistake, 
There  in  the  life  not  made  for  such  as  he; 
A  morning  grim  with  trouble  sure  to  be, 
A  noon  of  pain  from  failure,  and  a  night 
Bitter  with  men's  contemning  and  despite. 

This  in  the  first  beginning,  the  green  leaf, 
Still  in  the  Trades  before  bad  weather  fell; 
What  harvest  would  he  reap  of  hate  and 

grief 
When  the  loud  Horn  made  every  life  a  hell  ? 


16  DAUBER 

When  the  sick  ship  lay  over,  clanging  her 
bell, 

And  no  time  came  for  painting  or  for  draw- 
ing, 

But  all  hands  fought,  and  icy  death  came 
clawing  ? 

Hell,   he  expected,  —  hell.    His  eyes  grew 

blind ; 
The    snoring    from    his    messmates    droned 

and  snuffled, 

And  then  a  gush  of  pity  calmed  his  mind. 
The    cruel    torment    of    his    thought    was 

muffled, 
Without,    on    deck,    an    old,    old,    seaman 

shuffled, 
Humming  his  song,  and  through  the  open 

door 
A  moonbeam  moved  and  thrust  along  the 

floor. 


DAUBER  17 

The  green  bunk  curtains  moved,  the  brass 
rings  clicked, 

The  Cook  cursed  in  his  sleep,  turning  and 
turning, 

The  moonbeams'  moving  finger  touched 
and  picked, 

And  all  the  stars  in  all  the  sky  were  burn- 
ing. 

"This  is  the  art  I've  come  for,  and  am 
learning, 

The  sea  and  ships  and  men  and  travelling 
things. 

It  is  most  proud,  whatever  pain  it  brings." 

| 

He  leaned  upon  his  arm  and  watched  the 

light 

Sliding  and  fading  to  the  steady  roll; 
This  he  would  some  day  paint,   the  ship 

at  night, 

And  sleeping  seamen  tired  to  the  soul; 
c 


18  DAUBER 

The  space  below  the  bunks  as  black  as  coal, 
Gleams  upon  chests,  upon  the  unlit  lamp, 
The    ranging    door    hook,    and    the    locker 
clamp. 

This  he  would  paint,  and  that,  and  all  these 

scenes, 
And    proud    ships    carrying   on,   and    men 

their  minds, 

And  blues  of  rollers  toppling  into  greens, 
And  shattering  into  white  that  bursts  and 

blinds, 
And    scattering    ships    running    erect    like 

hinds, 

And  men  in  oilskins  beating  down  a  sail 
High  on  the  yellow  yard,  in  snow,  in  hail. 

With  faces  ducked  down  from  the  slant- 
ing drive 

Of  half-thawed  hail  mixed  with  half-frozen 
spray, 


DAUBER  19 

The  roaring  canvas  like  a  thing  alive, 
Shaking    the   mast,    knocking    their   hands 

away, 

The  foot-ropes  jerking  to  the  tug  and  sway, 
The  savage  eyes  salt-reddened  at  the  rims, 
And  icicles  on  the  south-wester  brims. 

And  sunnier  scenes  would  grow  under  his 

brush, 
The  tropic  dawn  with  all  things  dropping 

dew, 

The  darkness  and  the  wonder  and  the  hush, 
The  insensate  grey  before  the  marvel  grew; 
Then  the  veil  lifted  from  the  trembling  blue, 
The  walls  of  sky  burst  in,  the  flower,  the 

rose, 
All  the  expanse  of  heaven  a  mind  that  glows. 

He  turned  out  of  his  bunk;  the  Cook  still 
tossed, 


20  DAUBER 

One  of  the  other  two  spoke  in  his  sleep. 
A  cockroach  scuttled  where  the  moonbeam 

crossed ; 
Outside  there  was  the  ship,  the  night,  the 

deep. 
'It  is   worth   while,"    the   youth   said;  "I 

will  keep 

'o  my  resolve,  I'll  learn  to  paint  all  this. 
y  Lord,  my  God,  how  beautiful  it  is!" 

Outside  was  the  ship's  rush  to  the  wind's 

hurry, 

A  resonant  wire-hum  from  every  rope, 
The  broadening  bow- wash  in  a  fiery  flurry, 
The  leaning  masts  in  their  majestic  slope,  \ 
And    all    things    strange    with    moonlight :  \ 

filled  with  hope 

By  all  that  beauty  going  as  man  bade, 
He  turned  and  slept  in  peace.     Eight  bells 

were  made. 


DAUBER  21 

II 

NEXT  day  was  Sunday,  his   free   painting 

day, 
While   the   fine   weather   held,    from   eight 

till  eight. 

He  rose  when  called  at  five,  and  did  array 
The  round-house  gear,  and  set  the  kit-bags 

straight ; 
Then  kneeling  down,  like  housemaid  at  a 

grate, 
He  scrubbed  the  deck  with  sand  until  his 

knees 
Were  blue  with  dye  from  his  wet  dungarees. 

Soon  all  was  clean,  his  Sunday  tasks  were 

done; 

His  day  was  clear  for  painting  as  he  chose. 
The    wetted    decks    were    drying    in    the 

sun, 


22  DAUBER 

The  men  coiled  up,  or  swabbed,  or  sought 

repose. 

The  drifts  of  silver  arrows  fell  and  rose 
As    flying    fish   took  wing;    the    breakfast 

passed, 
Wasting  good  time,  but  he  was  free  at  last. 

Free  for  two  hours  and  more  to  tingle  deep, 
Catching  a  likeness  in  a  line  or  tint, 
The  canvas  running  up  in  a  proud  sweep, 
Wind-wrinkled    at    the    clews,    and    white 

like  lint, 

The  glittering  of  the  blue  waves  into  glint; 
Free   to   attempt   it   all,    the   proud   ship's 

pawings, 
The  sea,  the  sky  —  he  went  to  fetch  his 

drawings. 

Up    to    the    deck-house    top    he    quickly 
climbed, 


DAUBER  23 

He  stooped  to  find  them  underneath  the 

boat. 

He  found  them  all  obliterated,  slimed, 
Blotted,    erased,    gone   from  him   line   and 

note. 
They  were  all  spoiled :  a  lump  came  in  his 

throat, 
Being   vain    of   his   attempts,    and    tender 

skinned  — 
Beneath     the     skylight     watching     reefers 

grinned. 

He    clambered    down,    holding    the  ruined 

things. 
" Bosun,"  he  called,   "look  here,   did  you 

do  these : 
Wipe   off   my   paints   and   cut   them   into 

strings, 
And  smear  them  till  you  can't  tell  chalk 

from  cheese? 


24  DAUBER 

Don't  stare,  but  did  you  do  it?    Answer, 

please." 
The  Bosun  turned:  "I'll  give  you  a  thick 

ear ! 
Do  it  ?      I  didn't.      Get  to  hell  from  here  ! 

"I  touch  your  stinking  daubs?  The 
Dauber's  daft." 

A  crowd  was  gathering  now  to  hear  the 
fun; 

The  reefers  tumbled  out,  the  men  laid  aft, 

The  Cook  blinked,  cleaning  a  mess  kid  in 
the  sun. 

"What's  up  with  Dauber  now?"  said  every- 
one. 

"Someone  has  spoiled  my  drawings  —  look 
at  this!" 

"Well,  that's  a  dirty  trick,  by  God,  it  is!" 

"It  is,"  said  Sam,  "a  low-down  dirty  trick, 


DA  UBER  25 

To  spoil  a  fellow's  work  in  such  a  way, 
And  if  you  catch  him,  Dauber,  punch  him 

sick, 

For  he  deserves  it,  be  he  who  he  may." 
A  seaman  shook  his  old  head  wise  and  grey. 
"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "who  ain't  no 

judge, 
Them    drawings    look    much    better    now 

they're  smudge." 

"Where  were  they,  Dauber?    On  the  deck- 
house?   Where?" 

"Under  the  long-boat,  in  a  secret  place." 
"The  blackguard  must  have  seen  you  put 

them  there. 

He  is  a  swine !    I  tell  him  to  his  face : 
I  didn't  think  we'd  anyone  so  base." 
"Nor   I,"    said    Dauber.     "There   was   six 

weeks'  time 
Just  wasted  in  these  drawings :  it's  a  crime  ! " 


26  DAUBER 

"Well,  don't  you  say  we  did  it,"  growled 
his  mates, 

"And  as  for  crime,  be  damned  !  the  things 
were  smears  - 

Best  overboard,  like  you,  with  shot  for 
weights ; 

Thank  God  they're  gone,  and  now  go  shake 
your  ears." 

The  Dauber  listened,  very  near  to  tears. 

"Dauber,  if  I  were  you,"  said  Sam  again, 

"I'd  aft,  and  see  the  Captain  and  com- 
plain." 

A  sigh   came  from  the  assembled  seamen 

there. 

Would  he   be  such  a  fool  for  their  delight 
As    go    to    tell    the    Captain?    Would  he 

dare? 
And  would  the  thunder  roar,  the  lightning 

smite? 


DAUBER  27 

There  was  the  Captain  come  to  take  a  sight, 
Handling  his  sextant  by  the  chart-house  aft. 
The   Dauber   turned,   the   seamen   thought 
him  daft. 

The  Captain  took  his  sights  —  a  mate  be- 
low 

Noted  the  times;  they  shouted  to  each 
other, 

The  Captain  quick  with  "Stop,"  the  answer 
slow, 

Repeating  slowly  one  height  then  another. 

The  swooping  clipper  stumbled  through 
the  smother, 

The  ladder  brasses  in  the  sunlight  burned, 

The  Dauber  waited  till  the  Captain  turned. 

There  stood  the  Dauber,  humbled  to  the 

bone, 
Waiting  to  speak.     The  Captain  let  him  wait, 


28  DAUBER 

Glanced  at  the  course,  and  called  in  even 

tone, 
"What    is    the  man    there  wanting,   Mr. 

Mate?" 

The  logship  clattered  on  the  grating  straight, 
The    reel   rolled    to    the    scuppers    with    a 

clatter, 
The    Mate    came    grim:      "Well,    Dauber, 

what's  the  matter?" 

"Please,    sir,    they   spoiled   my   drawings." 

"Who  did?"     "They." 
"Who's  they?"     "I  don't  quite  know,  sir." 

"Don't  quite  know,  sir? 
Then  why  are  you  aft  to  talk  about  it,  hey  ? 
Whom    d'you    complain    of?"     "No    one." 

"No^one?"     "No,  sjr." 
"Well,  then,  go  forward  till  you've  found 

them.     Go,  sir. 
If  you  complain  of  someone,  then  I'll  see. 


DAUBER  29 

Now  get  to  hell !   and  don't  come  bothering 


me. 


"But,  sir,  they  washed  them  off,  and  some 

they  cut. 
Look   here,    sir,    how   they   spoiled   them." 

"Never  mind. 

Go  shove  your  head  inside  the  scuttle  butt, 
And  that  will  make  you  cooler.  You  will  find 
Nothing  like  water  when  you're  mad  and 

blind. 
Where  were  the   drawings?  in  your  chest, 

or  where?" 
"Under    the    long-boat,   sir;    I   put    them 

there." 

"Under    the    long-boat,    hey?    Now   mind 

your  tip. 
I'll  have  the  skids  kept  clear  with  nothing 

round  them; 


30  DAUBER 

The  long-boat  ain't  a  store  in  this  here  ship. 
Lucky  for  you  it  wasn't  I  who  found  them. 
If  I  had  seen  them,  Dauber,  I'd  have  drowned 

them. 
Now  you  be  warned  by  this.       I  tell  you 

plain  — 
Don't    stow   your    brass-rags    under    boats 

again. 

"Go  forward  to  your  berth."    The  Dauber 

turned. 
The  listeners  down  below  them  winked  and 

smiled, 
Knowing    how  red    the    Dauber's   temples 

burned, 

Having  lost  the  case  about  his  only  child. 
His  work  was  done  to  nothing  and  defiled, 
And  there  was  no  redress :  the  Captain's  voice 
Spoke,   and  called  "Painter,"  making  him 

rejoice. 


DA  USER  31 

The  Captain  and  the  Mate  conversed  to- 
gether. 
" Drawings,  you  tell  me,  Mister?"     "Yes, 

sir ;  views : 
Wiped  off  with  turps,   I  gather  that's  his 

blether. 
He  says  they're  things  he  can't  afford  to 

lose. 
He's   Dick,   who   came   to   sea  in   dancing 

shoes, 
And  found  the  dance  a  bear  dance.    They 

were  hidden 
Under  the  long-boat's   chocks,   which   I've 

forbidden." 

"Wiped  off  with  turps?"  The  Captain 
sucked  his  lip. 

"Who  did  it,  Mister?"  "Reefers,  I  sup- 
pose; 

Them  devils  do  the  most  pranks  in  a  ship; 


32  DAUBER 

The  round-house  might  have  done  it,  Cook 

or  Bose." 

"I  can't  take  notice  of  it  till  he  knows. 
How  does  he   do   his   work?"      "Well,  no 

offence ; 
He  tries;    he  does  his  best.     He's  got  no 


"Painter,"  the  Captain  called;  the  Dauber 

came. 
"What's  all  this  talk  of  drawings?    What's 

the  matter?" 
"They  spoiled  my  drawings,   sir."     "Well, 

who's  to  blame? 
The  long-boat's  there  for  no  one  to  get  at 

her; 
You  broke  the  rules,  and  if  you  choose  to 

scatter 

Gear  up  and  down  where  it's  no  right  to  be, 
And  suffer  as  result,  don't  come  to  me. 


DAUBER  33 

"Your   place   is   in    the   round-house,   and 

your  gear 
Belongs   where   you    belong.     Who    spoiled 

your  things? 
Find  out  who  spoiled  your  things  and  fetch 

him  here." 

"But,  sir,  they  cut  the  canvas  into  strings." 
"I  want  no  argument  nor  questionings. 
Go  back  where  you  belong  and  say  no  more, 
And  please  remember  that  you're  not  on 

shore." 

The  Dauber  touched  his  brow  and  slunk 
away  — 

They  eyed  his  going  with  a  bitter  eye. 

"Dauber,"  said  Sam,  "what  did  the  Cap- 
tain say?" 

The  Dauber  drooped  his  head  without 
reply. 

"Go  forward,  Dauber,  and  enjoy  your  cry." 

D 


34  DA  UBER 

The   Mate   limped   to    the   rail;    like  little 

feet 
Over   his    head    the    drumming   reef-points 

beat. 
The  Dauber  reached  the  berth  and  entered 

in. 

Much  mockery  followed  after  as  he  went, 
And  each  face   seemed   to    greet  him  with 

the  grin 
Of    hounds    hot    following    on    a   creature 

spent.' 
"Aren't  you  a  fool?"  each  mocking  visage 

meant. 
"Who  did  it,  Dauber?    What  did  Captain 

say? 
It  is  a  crime,  and  there'll  be  hell  to  pay." 

He  bowed  his  head,  the  house  was  full  of 

smoke ; 
The  Sails  was  pointing  shackles  on  his  chest. 


DAUBER  35 

''Lord,    Dauber,    be    a    man    and    take    a 

joke"- 
He  puffed  his  pipe  —  "and  let  the  matter 

rest. 

Spit  brown,  my  son,  and  get  a  hairy  breast ; 
Get  shoulders  on  you  at  the  crojick  braces, 
And  let  this  painting  business  go  to  blazes. 

"What  good  can  painting  do  to  anyone? 
I  don't  say  never  do  it ;    far  from  that  - 
No   harm   in   sometimes   painting   just   for 

fun. 
Keep  it  for  fun,  and   stick  to  what  you're 

at. 
Your  job's  to  fill  your  bones  up  and  get 

fat; 
Rib  up  like  Barney's  bull,  and  thick  your 

neck. 
Throw  paints  to  hell,  boy;   you  belong  on 

deck." 


36  DAUBER 

"That's    right,"    said    Chips;    "it's  down- 

right  good  advice. 
Painting's  no  good;    what  good  can  paint- 

ing do 

Up  on  a  lower  topsail  stiff  with  ice, 
With  all  your  little  fish-hooks  frozen  blue? 
Painting   won't   help   you   at    the   weather 

clew, 
Nor  pass  your  gaskets  for  you,  nor  make 

sail. 
Painting's  a  balmy  job  not  worth  a  nail." 


The  Dauber  did  not  answer  ;  time  was  pass- 


pulled  his  easel  out,  his  paints,  his  stool, 
he  wind  was  dropping,  and  the  sea  was 
glassing  - 

realms  of  beauty  waited  for  his  rule ; 
draught  out  of  the  crojick  kept  him 
cool. 


DAUBER  37 

He   sat   to   paint,    alone   and   melancholy. 
"No  turning  fools,"  the  Chips  said,  "from 
their  folly." 

He  dipped  his  brush  and  tried  to  fix  a  line, 
And  then  came  peace,  and  gentle  beauty  came, 
Turning  his  spirit's  water  into  wine, 
Lightening   his    darkness   with   a   touch    of 

flame: 

0,  joy  of  trying  for  beauty,  ever  the  same, 
You  never  fail,  your  comforts  never  end ; 
>)  balm  of  this' world's  way;  0,  perfect 

friend ! 


Ill 


THEY  lost  the  Trades  soon  after;  then 
came  calm, 

Light  little  gusts  and  rain,  which  soon  in- 
creased 


38  DAUBER 

To  glorious  northers  shouting  out  a  psalm 
At    seeing    the    bright    blue    water    silver 

fleeced ; 
Hornwards  she  rushed,  trampling  the  seas 

to  yeast. 

There  fell  a  rain-squall  in  a  blind  day's  end 
When   for   an   hour   the    Dauber   found   a 

friend. 

Out  of  the  rain  the  voices  called  and  passed, 
The   stay-sails   flogged,   the   tackle   yanked 

and  shook. 

Inside  the  harness-room  a  lantern  cast 
Light   and   wild   shadows   as  it   ranged   its 

hook. 
The  watch  on  deck  was  gathered  in  the 

nook, 

They  had  taken  shelter  in  that  secret  place, 
Wild    light    gave    wild    emotions    to    each 

face. 


DAUBER  39 

One  beat  the  beef-cask,  and  the  others  sang 

A  song  that  had  brought  anchors  out  of 
seas 

In  ports  where  bells  of  Christians  never 
rang, 

Nor  any  sea  mark  blazed  among  the  trees. 

By  forlorn  swamps,  in  ice,  by  windy  keys, 

That  song  had  sounded;  now  it  shook  the 
air 

From  these  eight  wanderers  brought  to- 
gether there. 

Under     the    poop-break,     sheltering    from 

the  rain, 
The    Dauber    sketched    some    likeness    of 

the  room, 

A  note  to  be  a  prompting  to  his  brain, 
A  spark  to  make  old  memory  reillume. 
"Dauber,"  said  someone  near  him  in  the 

gloom, 


40  DAUBER 

"How    goes   it,    Dauber?"     It    was   reefer 

Si. 
"  There's  not  much  use  in  trying  to  keep 

dry." 

They  sat  upon  the  sail-room  doorway  coam- 
ing, 

The  lad  held  forth  like  youth,  the  Dauber 
listened 

To  how  the  boy  had  had  a  taste  for  roam- 
ing, 

And  what  the  sea  is  said  to  be  and  isn't. 


Where  the  dim  lamplight  fell  the  wet  deck 

glistened. 

Si  said  the  Horn  was  still  some  weeks  away, 
"But   tell   me,    Dauber,    where   d'you   hail 

from?    Eh?" 

The  rain  blew  past  and  let  the  stars  appear ; 
The  seas  grew  larger  as  the  moonlight  grew; 


DAUBER  41 

For  half  an  hour  the  ring  of  heaven  was 

clear, 
Dusty    with    moonlight,    grey   rather    than 

blue  ; 
In  that  great  moon  the  showing  stars  were 

few. 

The  sleepy  time-boy's  feet  passed  overhead. 
"I  come  from  out  past  Gloucester,"  Dauber 

said ; 

"Not  far  from  Pauntley,  if  you  know  those 

parts  ; 

The  place  is  Spital  Farm,  near  Silver  Hill, 
Above  a  trap-hatch  where  a  mill-stream 

starts. 
We  had  the  mill  once,  but  we've  stopped 

the  mill; 

My  dad  and  sister  keep  the  farm  on  still. 
We're  only  tenants,  but  we've  rented  there, 
Father  and  son,  for  over  eighty  year. 


42  DAUBER 

"Father  has  worked  the  farm  since  grand- 

fer  went; 
It  means  the  world  to  him;  I  can't  think 

why. 
They  bleed  him  to  the  last  half-crown  for 

rent, 
And  this  and  that  have  almost  milked  him 

dry. 
The  land's  all  starved;  if  he'd  put  money 

by, 

And  corn  was  up,  and  rent  was  down  two- 
thirds.     .     .     . 
But  then  they  aren't,  so  what's  the  use  of 

words. 

"Yet  still  he  couldn't  bear  to  see  it  pass 
To  strangers,  or  to  think  a  time  would  come 
When  other  men  than  us  would  mow  the 

grass, 
And  other  names  than  ours  have  the  home.. 


DA  USER  43 

Some    sorrows    come    from    evil    thought, 

but  some 
Comes  when  two  men  are  near,  and  both  are 

blind 
To  what  is  generous  in  the  other's  mind. 

"I  was  the  only  boy,  and  father  thought 
I'd  farm  the  Spital  after  he  was  dead, 
And  many  a  time  he  took  me  out  and  taught 
About   manures   and   seed-corn   white   and 

red, 

And  soils  and  hops,  but  I'd  an  empty  head ; 
Harvest  or  seed,  I  would  not  do  a  turn  - 
I  loathed  the  farm,  I  didn't  want  to  learn. 

"He  did  not  mind  at  first,  he  thought  it 

youth 

Feeling  the  collar,  and  that  I  should  change. 
Then  time  gave  him  some  inklings  of  the 

truth, 


44  DAUBER 

And  that  I  loathed  the  farm,  and  wished 

to  range. 

Truth  to  a  man  of  fifty's  always  strange ; 
It  was  most  strange  and  terrible  to  him 
That  I,  his  heir,  should  be  the  devil's  limb. 

"Yet  still  he  hoped  the  Lord  might  change 

my  mind. 

I'd  see  him   bridle-in  his  wrath  and  hate, 
And  almost  break  my  heart  he  was  so  kind, 
Biting  his  lips  sore  with  resolve  to  wait. 
And  then  I'd  try  awhile ;  but  it  was  Fate : 
I  didn't  want  to  learn ;    the  farm  to  me 
Was  mire  and  hopeless  work  and  misery. 

"  Though  there  were  things  I  loved  about 
it,  too  - 

The  beasts,  the  apple-trees,  and  going  hay- 
ing. 

And  then  I  tried ;   but  no,  it  wouldn't  do, 


DAUBER  45 

The   farm    was    prison,    and   my    thoughts 

were  straying. 
And  there'd  come  father,  with  his  grey  head, 

praying, 

'O,  my  dear  son,  don't  let  the  Spital  pass; 
It's  my  old  home,  boy,  where  your  grand- 

fer  was. 

"'And  now  you  won't  learn  farming;  you 

don't  care. 
The  old  home's  nought  to  you.     I've  tried 

to  teach  you; 

I've  begged  Almighty  God,  boy,  all  I  dare, 
To   use   His  hand  if  word   of  mine  won't 

reach  you. 
Boy,  for  your  granfer's  sake  I  do  beseech 

you, 
Don't    let    the    Spital    pass    to    strangers. 

Squire 
Has  said  he'd  give  it  you  if  we  require. 


46  DAUBER 

"'Your   mother   used    to    walk   here,    boy, 

with  me; 

It  was  her  favourite  walk  down  to  the  mill ; 
And  there  we'd  talk  how  little  death  would  be, 
Knowing  our  work  was  going  on  here  still. 
You've  got  the  brains,  you  only  want  the 

will- 
Don't    disappoint    your    mother    and    your 

father. 
I'll  give  you  time  to  travel,  if  you'd  rather.' 

"But,  no,  I'd  wander  up  the  brooks  to  read. 
Then  sister  Jane  would  start  with  nagging 

tongue, 

Saying  my  sin  made  father's  heart  to  bleed, 
And  how  she  feared  she'd  live  to  see  me 

hung. 

And  then  she'd  read  me  bits  from  Dr.  Young. 
And  when  we  three  would  sit  to  supper,  Jane 
Would  fillip  dad  till  dad  began  again. 


DAUBER  47 

'"I've  been  here  all  my  life,  boy.     I  was 

born 

Up  in  the  room  above  —  looks  on  the  mead. 
I    never    thought    you'd    cockle    my    clean 

corn, 
And   leave   the   old   home   to   a   stranger's 

seed. 
Father    and    I   have   made   here    'thout    a 

weed: 
We've  give  our  lives  to  make  that.    Eighty 

years. 
And  now  I  go  down  to  the  grave  in  tears.' 

"And  then  I'd  get  ashamed  and  take  off 

coat, 
And  work  maybe  a  week,   ploughing  and 

sowing 

And  then  I'd  creep  away  and  sail  my  boat, 
Or   watch    the    water   when    the   mill    was 

going. 


48  DAUBER 

That's  my  delight  —  to  be  near  water  flow- 
ing, 

Dabbling  or  sailing  boats  or  jumping  stanks, 

i 
Or     finding     moorhens'     nests    along    the 

banks. 

"And    one   day   father   found    a   ship    I'd 

built ; 

He  took  the  cart-whip  to  me  over  that, 
And  I,  half  mad  with  pain,  and  sick  with 

guilt, 

Went  up  and  hid  in  what  we  called  the  flat, 
A  dusty  hole  given  over  to  the  cat. 
She  kittened  there;  the  kittens  had  worn 

paths 
Among    the    cobwebs,    dust,    and    broken 

laths. 

"And  putting  down  my  hand  between  the 
beams 


DA  UBEE  49 

I  felt  a  leathery  thing,  and  pulled  it  clear : 
A   book   with   white   cocoons   stuck  in   the 

seams. 
Where  spiders  had  had  nests  for  many  a 

year. 
It    was   my    mother's    sketch-book;   hid,  I 

fear, 

Lest  dad  should  ever  see  it.     Mother's  life 
Was  not  her  own  while  she  was   father's 

wife. 

"There  were  her  drawings,  dated,  pencilled 
faint. 

March  was  the  last  one,  eighteen  eighty- 
three, 

Unfinished  that,  for  tears  had  smeared  the 
paint. 

The  rest  was  landscape,  not  yet  brought 
to  be. 

That  was  a  holy  afternoon  to  me; 

E 


50  DAUBER 

That  book  a  sacred  book;  the  flat  a  place 
Where  I  could  meet  my  mother  face  to  face. 

"She   had    found   peace    of   spirit,    mother 

had, 

Drawing  the  landscape  from  the  attic  there  - 
Heart-broken,  often,  after  rows  with  dad, 
Hid  like  a  wild  thing  in  a  secret  lair. 
That  rotting  sketch-book  showed  me  how 

and  where 

I,  too,  could  get  away;    and  then  I  knew 
That  drawing  was  the  work  I  longed  to  do. 

"Drawing    became    my    life.      I    drew,    I 

toiled, 

And  every  penny  I  could  get  I  spent 
On   paints   and    artist's   matters,    which    I 

spoiled 

Up  in  the  attic  to  my  heart's  content, 
Till  one  day  father  asked  me  what  I  meant ; 


DAUBER  51 

The  time  had  come,  he  said,  to  make  an 

end. 
Now  it  must  finish:  what  did  I  intend? 

"  Either  I  took  to  farming,  like  his  son, 
In  which   case  he   would   teach   me,   early 

and  late 

(Provided  that  my  daubing  mood  was  done), 
Or  I  must  go :   it  must  be  settled  straight. 
If  I  refused  to  farm,  there  was  the  gate. 
I  was  to  choose,  his  patience  was  all  gone, 
The  present  state  of  things  could  not  go  on. 

" Sister  was  there;  she  eyed  me  while  he 

• 
spoke. 

The  kitchen  clock  ran  down  and  struck  the 

hour, 
And  something  told  me  father's  heart  was 

broke, 
For  all  he  stood  so  set  and  looked  so  sour. 


52  DAUBER 

Jane  took  a  duster,  and  began  to  scour 
A  pewter  on  the  dresser;    she  was  crying. 
I  stood  stock  still  a  long  time,  not  replying. 

"Dad  waited,  then  he  snorted  and  turned 

round. 

'Well,  think  of  it/  he  said.     He  left  the  room, 
His  boots  went  clop  along  the  stony  ground 
Out  to  the  orchard  and  the  apple-bloom. 
A  cloud  came  past   the  sun   and   made  a 

gloom ; 

I  swallowed  with  dry  lips,  then  sister  turned. 
She  was  dead  white  but  for  her  eyes  that 

burned. 

"' You're  breaking  father's  heart,  Joe,'   she 

began ; 
'It's   not   as   if '    she   checked,   in   too 

much  pain. 
'O,  Joe,  don't  help  to  kill  so  fine  a  man; 


DAUBER  53 

You're  giving  him  our  mother  over  again. 
It's  wearing  him  to  death,  Joe,  heart  and 

brain ; 
You  know  what  store  he  sets  on  leaving 

this 
To  (it's  too  cruel)  —  to  a  son  of  his. 

"'Yet   you   go   painting   all   the   day.    0, 

Joe, 
Couldn't  you  make  an  effort?    Can't  you 

see 
What  folly  it  is  of  yours?       It's  not  as 

though 

You  are  a  genius  or  could  ever  be. 
O,  Joe,  for  father's  sake,  if  not  for  me, 
Give  up  this  craze  for  painting,  and  be  wise 
And   work   with   father,   where   your   duty 

lies.' 

"'It  goes  too  deep,'  I  said;  'I  loathe  the 
farm ; 


54  DAUBER 

I  couldn't  help,  even  if  I'd  the  mind. 
Even  if  I  helped,  I'd  only  do  him  harm ; 
Father  would  see  it,  if  he  were  not  blind. 
I  was  not  built  to  farm,  as  he  would  find. 
0,  Jane,  it's  bitter  hard  to  stand  alone 
And  spoil  my  father's  life  or  spoil  my  own.' 

"' Spoil    both,'   she  said,    'the  way   you're 

shaping  now. 
You're  only  a  boy  not  knowing  your  own 

good. 
Where  will  you  go,  suppose  you  leave  here  ? 

How 

Do  you  propose  to  earn  your  daily  food? 
Draw?       Daub  the  pavements?       There's 

a  feckless  brood 

Goes  to  the  devil  daily,  Joe,  in  cities 
Only  from  thinking  how  divine  their  wit  is. 

"' Clouds  are  they,  without  water,   carried 
away. 


DAUBER  55 

And  you'll  be  one  of  them,  the  way  you're 

going, 

Daubing  at  silly  pictures  all  the  day, 
And  praised   by   silly  fools   who're  always 

blowing. 
And  you  choose  this  when  you  might  go 

a-sowing, 

Casting  the  good  corn  into  chosen  mould 
That  shall  in  time  bring  forth  a  hundred- 
fold.' 

"So  we  went  on,  but  in  the  end  it  ended. 
I  felt  I'd  done  a  murder;    I  felt  sick. 
There's  much  in  human  minds  cannot  be 

mended, 

And  that,  not  I,  played  dad  a  cruel  trick. 
There  was  one  mercy :  that  it  ended  quick,    j 
I  went  to  join  my  mother's  brother :  he 
Lived  down  the  Severn.      He  was  kind  to 

me. 


56  DA  UBEB 

"And    there    I    learned    house-painting    for 

a  living. 

I'd  have  been  happy  there,  but  that  I  knew 
I'd    sinned    before    my    father    past   for- 
giving, 

And  that  they  sat  at  home,  that  silent  two, 
Wearing    the    fire    out    and    the    evening 

through, 

Silent,  defeated,  broken,  in  despair, 
My  plate  unset,  my  name  gone,   and  my 
chair. 

"I    saw  all   that;    and    sister   Jane    came 

white  — 
White    as    a    ghost,    with    fiery,    weeping 

eyes. 

I  saw  her  all  day  long  and  half  the  night, 
Bitter  as  gall,  and  passionate  and  wise. 
'Joe,  you   have   killed   your   father :    there 

he  lies. 


DA  USER  57 

You  have  done  your  work  —  you  with  our 

mother's  ways.' 
She  said  it  plain,  and  then  her  eyes  would 

blaze. 

"And  then  one  day  I  had  a  job  to  do 
Down   below  bridge,   by  where   the   docks 

begin, 

And  there  I  saw  a  clipper  towing  through, 
Up  from  the  sea  that  morning,  entering  in. 
Raked  -to  the  nines  she  was,  lofty  and  thin, 
Her  ensign  ruffling  red,  her  bunts  in  pile, 
Beauty  and  strength  together,  wonder,  style. 

"She  docked  close  to  the  gates,  and  there 

she  lay 

Over  the  water  from  me,  well  in  sight  ; 
And  as  I  worked  I  watched  her  all  the  day, 
Finding  her  beauty  ever  fresh  delight. 
Her  house-flag  was  bright  green  with  strips 

of  white; 


58  DAUBER 

High  in  the  sunny  air  it  rose  to  shake 
Above    the    skysail    poles'    most    splendid 
rake. 

"And  when  I  felt  unhappy  I  would  look 
Over  the  river  at  her;   and  her  pride, 
So  calm,  so  quiet,  came  as  a  rebuke 
To  half  the  passionate  pathways  which   I 

tried ; 
And  though  the  autumn  ran  its  term  and 

died, 

And  winter  fell  and  cold  December  came, 
She  was  still  splendid  there,  and  still  the 

same. 

"Then  on  a  day  she  sailed;    but  when  she 

went 
My  mind  was  clear  on  what  I  had  to  try: 

To  see  the  sea  and  shipSj  and  what  they 

,_ 

meant, 


DAUBER  59 

That  was  the  thing  I  longed  to  do;  so  I 
Drew  and  worked  hard,  and  studied  and  put 

by, 

And  thought  of  nothing  else  but  that  one 

. 

end, 


else   go   hang  —  love,   money, 

j 

friend. 


But  let   all   else  go  hang  —  love,   money, 


"And  now  I've  shipped  as  Dauber  I've 
begun. 

It  was  hard  work  to  find  a  dauber's  berth; 

I  hadn't  any  friends  to  find  me  one, 

Only  my  skill,  for  what  it  may  be  worth; 

But  I'm  at  sea  now,  going  about  the  earth, 

And  when  the  ship's  paid  off,  when  we  re- 
turn, 

I'll  join  some  Paris  studio  and  learn." 

He  stopped,  the  air  came  moist,  Si  did  not 
speak ; 


60  DAUBER 

The  Dauber  turned  his  eyes  to  where  he 

sat, 
Pressing    the    sail-room    hinges    with    his 

cheek, 
His    face    half    covered    with    a    drooping 

hat. 
Huge  dewdrops  from  the  stay-sails  dropped 

and  spat. 
Si   did   not  stir,   the   Dauber   touched  his 

sleeve ; 

A  little  birdlike  noise  came  from  a  sheave. 
/ 

Si  was  asleep,  sleeping  a  calm  deep  sleep, 
Still  as  a  warden  of  the  Egyptian  dead 
In  some  old  haunted  temple  buried  deep 
Under  the  desert  sand,   sterile  and  red. 
The  Dauber  shook  his  arm;  Si  jumped  and 

said, 
"Good  yarn,  I  swear !      I  say,  you  have  a 

brain  — 


DAUBER  61 

Was   that   eight   bells    that    went?"      He 
slept  again. 

Then  waking  up,  "I've  had  a  nap,"  he  cried. 
"Was  that  one  bell?    What,  Dauber,  you 

still  here?" 
"Si  there?"  the  Mate's  voice  called.    "Sir," 

he  replied. 

The  order  made  the  lad's  thick  vision  clear ; 
A  something  in  the  Mate's  voice  made  him 

fear. 
"Si,"  said  the  Mate,  "I  hear  you've  made 

a  friend  — 
Dauber,    in    short.    That    friendship's    got 

to  end. 

"You're  a  young  gentleman.    Your  place 

aboard 

Is  with  the  gentlemen  abaft  the  mast. 
You're  learning  to  command;     you   can't 

afford 


62  DAUBER 

To   yarn   with   any   man.     But   there  .  .  . 

it's  past. 
You've  done  it  once;    let  this  time  be  the 

last. 
The    Dauber's   place   is   forward.        Do   it 

again, 
I'll  put  you  bunking  forward  with  the  men. 

"Dismiss."     Si  went,  but  Sam,  beside  the 

Mate, 
Timekeeper  there,  walked  with  him  to  the 

rail 
And  whispered  him   the  menace  of  "You 

wait"- 
Words  which  have  turned  full  many  a  reefer 

pale. 
The  watch  was  changed ;  the  watch  on  deck 

trimmed  sail. 
Sam,    going    below,    called    all    the    reefers 

down, 


DAUBER  63 

Sat  in  his  bunk  and  eyed  them  with  a  frown. 

"Si  here,"  he  said,  "has  soiled  the  half- 
deck's  name 

Talking  to  Dauber  —  Dauber,  the  ship's 
clout. 

A  reefer  takes  the  Dauber  for  a  flame, 

The  half-deck  take  the  round-house  walking 
out. 

He's  soiled  the  half-deck's  honour ;  now,  no 
doubt, 

The  Bosun  and  his  mates  will  come  here 
sneaking, 

Asking  for  smokes,  or  blocking  gangways 
speaking. 

"I'm  not  a  vain  man,  given  to  blow  or  boast ; 
I'm  not  a  proud  man,  but  I  truly  feel 
That  while  I've  bossed  this  mess  and  ruled 
this  roast 


64  DA  USER 

I've   kept   this  hooker's  half-deck   damned 

genteel. 

Si  must  ask  pardon,  or  be  made  to  squeal. 
Down  on  your  knees,   dog;  them  we  love 

we  chasten. 
Jao,  pasea,  my  son  —  in  English,  Hasten." 

Si    begged    for    pardon,    meekly    kneeling 

down 

Before   the   reefer's   mess   assembled   grim. 
The  lamp  above  them  smoked  the  glass  all 

brown; 
Beyond   the  door  the  dripping  sails  were 

dim. 
The  Dauber  passed  the  door;  none  spoke 

to  him. 
He  sought  his  berth  and  slept,  or,  waking, 

heard 

/ 

Rain   on   the   deck-house  —  tain,    no   other 

x  \ 

word. 


DAUBER  65 

IV 

OUT  of  the  air  a  time  of  quiet  came, 
Calm  fell  upon  the  heaven  like  a  drouth; 
The  brass   sky  watched   the   brassy  water 

flame. 

Drowsed  as  a  snail  the  clipper  loitered  south 
Slowly,    with    no    white    bone    across    her 

mouth ; 

No  rushing  glory,  like  a  queen  made  bold, 
The    Dauber   strove    to    draw   her    as   she 

rolled. 

There    the    four    leaning    spires    of    canvas 

rose, 

Royals  and  skysails  lifting,   gently  lifting, 
White  like  the  brightness  that  a  great  fish 

blows 
When  billows  are  at  peace  and  ships  are 

drifting ; 

F 


66  DA  UBEB 

With   mighty   jerks   that   set   the   shadows 

shifting, 
The   courses  tugged  their   tethers :   a   blue 

haze 
Drifted  like  ghosts  of  flocks  come  down  to 

graze. 

There  the  great  skyline  made  her  perfect 
round, 

Notched  now  and  then  by  the  sea's  deeper 
blue; 

A  smoke-smutch  marked  a  steamer  home- 
ward bound, 

The  haze  wrought  all  things  to  intenser 
hue. 

In  tingling  impotence  the  Dauber  drew 

As  all  men  draw,  keen  to  the  shaken 
soul 

To  give  a  hint  that  might  suggest  the 
whole. 


DA  USER  67 

A  naked  seaman  washing  a  red  shirt 
Sat  at  a  tub  whistling  between  his  teeth; 
Complaining    blocks    quavered    like    some- 
thing hurt. 

A  sailor  cut  an  old  boot  for  a  sheath, 
The  ship  bowed  to  her  shadow-ship  beneath, 
And  little   slaps  of  spray  came  at  the  roll 
On  to  the  deck-planks  from  the  scupper- 
hole. 

He     watched    it,     painting    patiently,     as 

paints, 
With  eyes  that  pierce  behind  the  blue  sky's 

veil, 

The  Benedictine  in  a  Book  of  Saints 
Watching  the  passing  of  the  Holy  Grail; 
The  green  dish  dripping  blood,  the  trump, 

the  hail, 
The  spears  that  pass,  the  memory  and  the 

passion, 


68  DAUBER 

The    beauty    moving    under    this    world's 
fashion. 

But  as  he  painted,  slowly,  man  by  man, 
The  seamen  gathered  near ;  the  Bosun  stood 
Behind  him,  jeering;  then  the  Sails  began 
Sniggering  with  comment  that  it  was  not 

good. 
Chips  flicked  his  sketch  with  little  scraps 

of  wood, 
Saying,    "That    hit    the    top-knot,"    every 

time. 
Cook  mocked,   "My  lovely  drawings;    it's 

a  crime." 

Slowly  the  men  came  nearer,  till  a  crowd 
Stood  at  his  elbow,  muttering  as  he  drew; 
The  Bosun,  turning  to  them,  spoke  aloud, 
"This  is  the  ship  that  never  got  there. 

You 
Look  at  her  here,  what  Dauber's  trying  to  do. 


DAUBER  69 

Look  at  her  !    lummy,  like  a  Christmas- tree. 
That  thing's  a  ship ;  he  calls  this  painting. 
See?" 

Seeing  the  crowd,  the  Mate  came  forward ; 

then 
"Sir,"  said  the  Bosun,  "come  and  see  the 

sight ! 

Here's  Dauber  makes  a  circus  for  the  men. 
He    calls    this    thing    a    ship  —  this    hell's 

delight!" 
"Man,"  said  the  Mate,   "you'll  never  get 

her  right 
Daubing   like    that.        Look   here!"       He 

took  a  brush. 
"Now,  Dauber,  watch;  I'll  put  you  to  the 

blush. 

"Look  here.     Look  there.    Now  watch  this 
ship  of  mine." 


70  DAUBER 

He  drew  her  swiftly  from  a  memory  stored. 
"God,  sir,"  the  Bosun  said,  "you  do  her 

fine!" 

"Ay,"  said  the  Mate,  "I  do  so,  by  the  Lord  ! 
I'll  paint  a  ship  with  any  man  aboard.'* 
They  hung  about  his  sketch  like  beasts  at 

bait. 
"There  now,  I  taught  him  painting,"  said 

the  Mate. 

When  he  had  gone,  the  gathered  men  dis- 
persed ; 

Yet  two  or  three  still  lingered  to  dispute 
What  errors  made  the  Dauber's  work 

the  worst. 

;*r 

They  probed  his  wantof  knowledge  to  the 


"Bei    Gott!"     they   swore,    "der    Dauber 
w 

T* 

cannot  do  't; 
He  haf  no  knolich  how  to  put  der  pense. 


DAUBER  71 

Der  Mate's  is  goot.     Der  Dauber  haf  no 


"You  hear?"  the  Bosun  cried,  "you  can- 
not do  it!" 

"A  gospel  truth,"  the  Cook  said,  "true 
as  hell ! 

And  wisdom,  Dauber,  if  you  only  knew  it; 

A  five  year  boy  would  do  a  ship  as  well." 

"If  that's  the  kind  of  thing  you  hope  to  sell, 

God  help   you,"   echoed   Chips.       "I   tell 

\V 
you  true, 

\v 

The  job's  beyond  you,  Dauber;     drop  it, 

/V 
do. 

W 

"Drop  it,  in  God's  name  drop  it,  and  have 

done ! 
You  see  you  cannot  do  it.  Here's  the 

Mate 
Paints  you  to  frazzles  before  everyone; 


72  DAUBER 

Paints  you  a  dandy  clipper  while  you  wait. 
While  you,  Lord  love  us,  daub.     I  tell  you 

straight, 

We've  had  enough  of  daubing ;  drop  it ;  quit. 
You  cannot  paint,  so  make  an  end  of  it." 

"That's  sense,"  said  all;  "you  cannot,  why 

pretend?" 

The  Dauber  rose  and  put  his  easel  by. 
"You've  said  enough,"  he  said,   "now  let 

it  end. 
Who    cares    how    bad    my    painting    may 

be?    I 

I*  Mean  to  go  on,  and,  if  I  fail,  to  try. 

//         However  much  I  miss  of  my  intent, 

'  * 

If  I  have  done  my  best  I'll  be  content. 

"You  cannot  understand  that.     Let  it  be. 
You    cannot    understand,    nor    know,    nor 
share. 


DAUBER  73 

This  is  a  matter  touching  only,  me ; 

My   sketch   may   be   a   daub,  for   aught   I 

care. 

You  may  be  right.     But  even  if  you  were, 
Your  mocking  should  not  stop   this  work 

of  mine ; 
Rot  though  it  be,  its  prompting  is  divine 


, 


"You  cannot  understand  that  —  you,  and 
you, 

And  you,  you  Bosun.  You  can  stand  and 
jeer, 

That  is  the  task  your  spirit  fits  you  to, 

That  you  can  understand  and  hold  most 
dear. 

Grin,  then,  like  collars,  ear  to  donkey  ear, 

But  let  me  daub.  Try,  you,  to  under- 
stand 

Which  task  will  bear  the  light  best  on  God's 
hand." 


74  DAUBER 


THE  wester  came  as  steady  as  the  Trades  ; 

Brightly  it  blew,  and  still  the  ship  did 
shoulder 

The  brilliance  of  the  water's  white  cockades 

Into  the  milky  green  of  smoky  smoulder. 

The  sky  grew  bluer  and  the  air  grew  colder. 

Southward  she  thundered  while  the  westers 
held, 

Proud,  with  taut  bridles,  pawing,  but  com- 
pelled. 


d  still  the  Dauber  strove,  though  all  men 

mocked, 

To  draw  the  splendour  of  the  passing  thing, 
And    deep    inside    his    heart    a  something 

locked, 

Long  pricking  in  him,  now  began  to  sting  - 
A  fear  of  the  disasters  storm  might  bring; 


DAUBER  75 

His  rank  as  painter  would  be  ended  then  — 
He  would  keep  watch  and  watch  like  other 
men. 

And  go  aloft  with  them  to  man  the  yard 
When  the  great  ship  was  rolling  scuppers 

under, 
Burying  her  snout  all  round  the  compass 

card, 
While  the  green  water  struck  at  her  and 

stunned  her; 
When    the    lee-rigging    slacked,    when    one 

long  thunder 
Boomed  from  the  black  to  windward,  when 

the  sail 
Booted  and  spurred  the  devil  in  the  gale 

For   him    to   ride   on   men :   that  was   the 

time 
The  Dauber  dreaded ;  then  the  test  would 

come, 


76  DA  USER 

When   seas,   half-frozen,   slushed   the  decks 

with  slime, 

And  all  the  air  was  blind  with  flying  scum; 
When  the  drenched  sails  were  furled,  when 

the  fierce  hum 

In  weather  riggings  died  into  the  roar 
Of  God's  eternal  never  tamed  by  shore. 

Once  in  the  passage  he  had  worked  aloft, 
Shifting  her  suits  one  summer  afternoon, 
In  the  bright  Trade  wind,  when  the  wind 

was  soft, 
Shaking    the    points,    making    the    tackle 

croon. 
But  that  was  child's  play  to  the  future : 

soon 

He  would  be  ordered  up  when  sails  and 
/¥£#     spars 
Were    flying    and    going    mad    among  the 

•/  «j  &J  ft  •         ••       •    •'  ii    •    ...  ..^a  .  .• 

~ -: 

stars. 


DAUBER  77 

He  had  been  scared  that  first  time,  daunted, 

thrilled, 

Not  by  the  height  so  much  as  by  the  size, 
And  then  the  danger  to  the  man  unskilled 
In  standing  on  a  rope  that  runs  through  eyes. 
"But  in  a  storm,"  he  thought,  "the  yards 

will  rise 
And    roll    together    down,  and   snap   their 

gear !" 
The  sweat  came  cold  upon  his  palms  for  fear. 

Sometimes  in  Gloucester  he  had  felt  a  pang 
Swinging  below  the  house-eaves  on  a  stage. 
But  stages  carry  rails;  here  he  would  hang 
Upon  a  jerking  rope  in  a  storm's  rage, 
Ducked   that   the   sheltering   oilskin   might 

assuage 
The   beating   of   the   storm,    clutching   the 

jack, 
Beating   the  sail,   and   being  beaten   back. 


78  DA  UBER 

Drenched,  frozen,  gasping,  blinded,  beaten 

dumb, 
High   in   the   night,   reeling   great   blinding 

arcs 

As  the  ship  rolled,  his  chappy  fingers  numb, 
The  deck  below  a  narrow  blur  of  marks, 
The  sea  a  welter  of  whiteness  shot  with 

sparks, 
Now    snapping    up    in    bursts,    now    dying 

away, 
Salting  the  horizontal  snow  with  spray. 

A  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the  deck, 
And  there,  while  the  ship  rolls,  boldly  to 

sit 

Upon  a  foot-rope  moving,  jerk  and  check, 
While  half  a  dozen  seamen  work  on  it ; 
Held  by  one  hand,   straining,   by  strength 

and  wit 
To   toss   a  gasket's   coil   around   the  yard, 


DAUBER  79 

How  could  he  compass  that  when  blowing 
hard? 

And  if  he  failed  in  any  least  degree, 
Or  faltered  for  an  instant,  or  showed  slack, 
He  might  go  drown  himself  within  the  sea, 
And  add  a  bubble  to  the  clipper's  track. 
He  had  signed  his  name,  there  was  no  turn- 
ing back, 

No  pardon  for  default  —  this  must  be  done. 
One  iron  rule  at  sea  binds  everyone. 

Till  now  he  had  been   treated  with   con- 
tempt 

As  neither  man  nor  thing,  a  creature  borne 
On  the  ship's  articles,  but  left  exempt 
From   all   the   seamen's    life    except    their 

scorn. 

But  he  would  rank  as  seaman  off  the  Horn, 
Work  as  a  seaman,  and  be  kept  or  cast 
By  standards  set  for  men  before  the  mast. 


80  DAUBER 

Even  now  they  shifted  suits  of  sails;  they 

bent 

The  storm-suit  ready  for  the  expected  time; 
The  mighty  wester  that  the  Plate  had  lent 
Had  brought  them  far  into  the  wintry  clime. 
|  At  dawn,  out  of  the  shadow,  there  was 

rime, 

The  dim  Magellan  Clouds  were  frosty  clear, 
The  wind  had  edge,  the  testing-time  was 

near. 

And  then  he  wondered  if  the  tales  were 

lies 

Told  by  old  hands  to  terrify  the  new, 
For,    since    the    ship    left    England,    only 

twice 
Had  there  been  need  to  start  a  sheet  or 

clew, 

Then  only  royals,  for  an  hour  or  two, 
And  no  seas  broke  aboard,  nor  was  it  cold. 


DAUBER  81 

What  were  these  gales  of  which  the  stories 
told? 

The  thought  went  by.      He  had  heard  the 

Bosun  tell 

Too  often,  and  too  fiercely,  not  to  know 
That  being  off  the  Horn  in  June  is  hell : 
Hell  of  continual  toil  in  ice  and  snow, 
Frostbitten  hell  in  which  the  westers  blow 
Shrieking  for  days  on  end,  in  which  the 

seas 
Gulf  the  starved  seamen  till  their  marrows 

freeze. 

Such  was  the  weather  he  might  look  to 
find, 

Such  was  the  work  expected :  there  re- 
mained 

Firmly  to  set  his  teeth,  resolve  his  mind, 

And  be  the  first,  however  much  it  pained, 


82  DA  USER 

And  bring  his  honour  round  the  Horn  un- 
stained, 

And  win  his  mates'  respect;  and  thence, 
untainted, 

Be  ranked  as  man  however  much  he 
painted. 

He  drew  deep   breath;   a  gantline  swayed 

aloft 
A    lower    topsail,    hard    with    rope    and 

leather, 

Such  as  men's  frozen  fingers  fight  with  oft 
Below  the  Ramirez  in  Cape  Horn  weather. 
The  arms  upon  the  yard  hove  all  together, 
Lighting  the  head  along ;  a  thought  occurred 
Within  the  painter's  brain  like  a  bright 

bird: 

That  this,  and  so  much  like  it,  of  man's 
toil, 


DA  UBER  83 

Compassed  by  naked  manhood  in  strange 

places, 

Was  all  heroic,  but  outside  the  coil 
Within  which  modern  art  gleams  or  grim- 
aces; 

That  if  he  drew  that  line  of  sailor's  faces 
Sweating  the  sail,  their  passionate  play  and 

change, 

It    would    be    new,    and    wonderful,    and 
strange. 


That   that  was   what   his   work   meant;   it 

would  be 

A  training  in  new  vision  —  a  revealing 
Of    passionate    men    in    battle    with    the  / 

sea, 
High    on    an    unseen    stage,    shaking    and 

reeling ; 
And   men   through   him   would   understand 

their  feeling, 


84  DAUBER 

Their    might,    their    misery,    their    tragic 

power, 
And  all  by  suffering  pain  a  little  hour; 

High  on  the  yard  with  them,  feeling  their 

pain, 
Battling  with  them;   and  it  had  not  been 

done. 

v s_^- 

He  was  a  door  to  new  worlds  in  the  brain, 

A  window  opening  letting  in  the  sun, 

A    voice    saying,    "Thus    is   bread    fetched 

and  ports  won, 

And  life  lived  out  at  sea  where  men  exist 
Solely  by  man's  strong  brain  and  sturdy 

wrist." 

So  he  decided,  as  he  cleaned  his  brasses, 
Hearing  without,  aloft,  the  curse,  the  shout 
Where    the   taut   gantline   passes    and   re- 
passes, 


DAUBER  85 

Heaving  new  topsails  to  be  lighted  out. 
It    was    most    proud,    however    self   might 

doubt, 

To  share  man's  tragic  toil  and  paint  it  true. 
He  took  the  offered  Fate :  this  he  would 

do. 

That  night  the  snow  fell  between  six  and 

\    j 

A  little  feathery  fall  so  light,  so  dry —       \ 

1 1/  / 
An  aimless  dust  out  of  a  confused  heaven,  i 

i   f 
Upon  an  air  no  steadier  than  a  sigh;  I/ 

The  powder  dusted  down  and  wandered  by 

/  r\  ?    • 
\    tf^    \, 

So  purposeless,   so  many,   and  so  cold, 
Then  died,  and  the  wind  ceased  and  the 
ship  rolled. 

Rolled   till   she    clanged  —  rolled    till    the 

brain  was  tired, 
Marking    the    acme    of    the    heaves,    the 

pause 


86  DAUBER 

While  the  sea-beauty  rested  and  respired, 

i 

Drinking   great   draughts   of   roller   at   her 

hawse. 

Flutters  of  snow  came  aimless  upon  flaws. 
"Lock   up    your   paints,"    the    Mate   said, 

speaking  light : 
"This  is  the  Horn;    you'll  join  my  watch 

to-night!" 


VI 


ALL  through  the  windless  night  the  clipper 

rolled 

In  a  great  swell  with  oily  gradual  heaves 
Which  rolled  her  down  until  her  time-bells 

tolled, 
Clang,    and    the    weltering    water    moaned 

like  beeves. 
\ 
>i  The  thundering  rattle  of  slatting  siook  the 

§heaves, 


DAUBER  87 

Startles  of  water  made  the  swing  ports 
gush, 

The  sea  was  moaning  and  sighing  and  say- 
ing "Hush!" 

It    was    all    black    and    starless.     Peering 

down 

Into  the  water,  trying  to  pierce  the  gloom, 
One   saw    a    dim,    smooth,    oily   glitter    of 

brown 
Heaving    and    dying    away    and     leaving 

room 

For  yet  another.      Like  the  march  of  doom 
Came    those    great    powers    of    marching 

silences ; 
Then  fog  came  down,   dead-cold,   and  hid 

the  seas. 

They  set  the  Dauber  to  the  foghorn.    There 
He  stood  upon  the  poop,  making  to  sound 


88  DAUBER 

Out  of  the  pump  the  sailor's  nasal  blare, 
Listening   lest   ice   should   make   the   note 

resound. 

She  bayed  there  like  a  solitary  hound 
Lost    in    a    covert;    all    the    watch    she 

bayed. 
The  fog,   come  closelier  down,   no  answer 

made. 


•^Denser  it  grew,  until  the  ship  was  lost. 

^ 

The  elemental  hid  her;     she  was  merged 
In  mufflings  of  dark  death,  like  a  man's 

ghost, 
New  to  the  change  of  death,  yet  thither 

urged. 
Then   from   the   hidden   waters   something 

surged  - 
Mournful,    despairing,    great,    greater   than 

speech, 
A  noise  like  one  slow  wave  on  a  still  beach. 


DAUBER  89 

Mournful,  and  then  again  mournful,  and 
still 

Out  of  the  night  that  mighty  voice  arose; 

The  Dauber  at  his  foghorn  felt  the  thrill. 

Who  rode  that  desolate  sea?  What  forms 
were  those? 

Mournful,  from  things  defeated,  in  the 
throes 

Of  memory  of  some  conquered  hunting- 
ground, 

Out  of  the  night  of  death  arose  the  sound. 

/ 

X't* 

"Whales!"    said  the  Mate.      They  stayed 

of 
there  all  night  long 

Answering   the   horn.       Out   of   the   night 

they  spoke, 

Defeated  creatures  who  had  suffered  wrong, 
But  were  still  noble  underneath  the  stroke. 
They  filled  the  darkness  when  the  Dauber 

woke; 


90  DAUBER 

The  men  came  peering  to  the  rail  to  hear, 
And  the  sea  sighed,   and  the  fog  rose  up 
sheer. 

A  wall  of  nothing  at  the  world's  last  edge, 
Where  no  life   came  except   defeated  life. 
The  Dauber  felt  shut  in  within  a  hedge, 
Behind  which  form  was  hidden  and  thought 

was  rife, 

And  that  a  blinding  flash,  a  thrust,  a  knife 
Would  sweep   the  hedge  away  and  make 

all  plain, 
Brilliant    beyond    all    words,    blinding   the 

brain. 

J         So  the  night  passed,  but  then  no  morning 
broke  — 


Only  a  something  showed  that  night  was 

dead. 
A  sea-bird,  cackling  like  a  devil,  spoke, 


DAUBER  91 

And  the  fog  drew  away  and  hung  like 
lead. 

Like  mighty  cliffs  it  shaped,  sullen  and  red; 

Like  glowering  gods  at  watch  it  did  ap- 
pear, 

And  sometimes  drew  away,  and  then  drew 
near. 

Like  islands,  and  like  chasms,  and  like  hell, 
But  always  mighty  and  red,   gloomy  and 

ruddy, 

Shutting  the  visible  sea  in_Jike  a  well; 
Slow  heaving  in   vast  ripples,   blank   and 

muddy, 
Where  the  sun  should  have  risen  it  streaked 

bloody. 
The  day  was  still-born;     all  the  sea-fowl 

scattering 
Splashed  the  still  water,  mewing,  hovering, 

clattering. 


92  DAUBER 

Then    Polar    snow    came    down    little    and 

light, 

Till  all  the  sky  was  hidden  by  the  small, 
Most  multitudinous  drift  of  dirty  white 
Tumbling  and  wavering  down  and  covering 

all- 
Covering  the  sky,  the  sea,  the  clipper  tall, 
Furring  the  ropes  with   white,   casing   the 

mast, 
Coming  on  no  known  air,  but  blowing  past. 

And   all    the    air    seemed    full    of    gradual 

moan, 
As  though  in  those  cloud-chasms  the  horns 

were  blowing 

The  mort  for  gods  cast  out  and  overthrown, 
Or   for   the   eyeless   sun   plucked   out   and 

going. 
Slow  the  low  gradual  moan  came  in  the 

snowing ; 


DAUBER  93 

The   Dauber  felt   the   prelude  had  begun. 
The  snowstorm  fluttered  by;     he  saw  the 
sun 

T 

Show  and  pass  by,  gleam  from  one  towering 

pnson 

Into  another,  vaster  and  more  grim, 
Which  in  dull  crags  of  darkness  had  arisen 
To  muffle-to  a  final  door  on  him. 
The  gods  upon  the  dull  crags  lowered  dim, 
The  pigeons   chattered,   quarrelling  in   the 

track. 
In   the  south-west   the   dimness   dulled   to 

black. 

Then  came  the  cry  of  "Call  all  hands  on 

deck!" 
The   Dauber   knew   its   meaning;     it   was 

come: 
Cape  Horn,  that  tramples  beauty  into  wreck, 


94  DAUBEB 

And  crumples  steel  and  smites  the  strong 

man  dumb. 

Down  clattered  flying  kites  and  staysails : 
some 

Sang  out  in  quick,  high  calls :  the  fair- 
leads  skirled, 

And  from  the  south-west  came  the  end  of 
the  world. 

"Caught  in  her  ball-dress,"  said  the  Bosun, 

hauling ; 
"Lee-ay,    lee-ay!"  quick,    high,   came    the 

men's  call; 

It  was  all  wallop  of  sails  and  startled  calling. 
"Let  fly!"    "Let  go!"    "Clew  up!"    and 

"Let  go  all!" 
"Now  up  and  make  them  fast!"    "Here, 

give  us  a  haul !" 
"Now    up    and    stow    them!    Quick!    By 

God  !    we're  done  !" 


DAUBER  95 

The  blackness  crunched  all  memory  of  the 
sun. 

"Up!"  said  the  Mate.  "Mizen  top- 
gallants. Hurry!" 

The  Dauber  ran,  the  others  ran,  the  sails 

Slatted  and  shook;  out  of  the  black  a 
flurry 

Whirled  in  fine  lines,  tattering  the  edge 
to  trails. 

Painting  and  art  and  England  were  old 
tales 

Told  in  some  other  life  to  that  pale  man, 

Who  struggled  with  white  fear  and  gulped 
and  ran. 

He  struck  a  ringbolt  in  his  haste  and  fell  — 
Rose,  sick  with  pain,  half-lamed  in  his  left 

knee; 
He  reached  the  shrouds  where  clambering 

men  pell-mell 


96  DAUBER 

Hustled  each  other  up  and  cursed  him; 
he 

Hurried  aloft  with  them :  then  from  the 
sea 

Came  a  cold,  sudden  breath  that  made 
the  hair 

Stiff  on  the  neck,  as  though  Death  whis- 
pered there. 

A   man   below   him   punched   him   in   the 

side. 

"Get  up,  you  Dauber,  or  let  me  get  past." 
He  saw   the  belly  of  the   skysail   skied, 
Gulped,   and   clutched   tight,   and   tried  to 

go  more  fast. 
Sometimes  he  missed  his  ratline  and  was 

grassed, 

Scraped  his  shin  raw  against  the  rigid  line. 
The   clamberers      reached      the      futtock- 

shrouds'  incline. 


DAUBER  97 

Cursing  they  came;  one,  kicking  out  be- 
hind, 

Kicked  Dauber  in  the  mouth,  and  one  be- 
low 

Punched  at  his  calves ;  the  futtock-shrouds 
inclined 

It  was  a  perilous  path  for  one  to  go. 

"Up,  Dauber,  up!"  A  curse  followed  a 
blow. 

He  reached  the  top  and  gasped,  then  on, 
then  on. 

And  one  voice  yelled  "Let  go!"  and  one 
"All  gone!" 

Fierce  clamberers,   some  in  oilskins,   some 

in  rags, 
Hustling   and   hurrying   up,    up   the   steep 

stairs. 
Before   the   windless   sails   were   blown   to 

flags, 

H 


98  DAUBER 

And  whirled  like  dirty  birds  athwart  great  airs, 
Ten  men  in  all,  to  get  this  mast  of  theirs 
Snugged  to  the  gale  in  time.  "Up!  Damn 

you,  run !" 
The  mizen  topmast  head  was  safely  won. 

"Lay  out !"  the  Bosun  yelled.    The  Dauber 

laid 
Out  on  the  yard,  gripping  the  yard,  and 

feeling 

Sick  at  the  mighty  space  of  air  displayed 
Below  his  feet,  where  mewing  birds  were 

wheeling. 

A  giddy  fear  was  on  him;  he  was  reeling. 
He  bit  his  lip  half  through,  clutching  the 

jack. 
A    cold    sweat  glued    the    shirt  upon  his 

back. 

The   yard   was   shaking,   for   a   brace  was 
loose. 


DAUBER  99 

He  felt  that  he  would  fall ;     he  clutched, 

he  bent, 

Clammy  with  natural  terror  to  the  shoes 
While  idiotic  promptings  came  and  went. 
Snow  fluttered  on  a  wind-flaw  and  was 

spent ; 

He  saw  the  water  darken.  Someone  yelled, 
"Frap  it;  don't  stay  to  furl!  Hold  on!" 

He  held. 

Darkness  came  down  —  half  darkness  —  in 

a  whirl; 

The  sky  went  out,  the  waters  disappeared. 
He  felt  a  shocking  pressure  of  blowing  hurl 
The  ship  upon  her  side.  The  darkness 

speared 
At    her    with    wind ;      she    staggered,    she 

careered, 
Then  down  she  lay.     The  Dauber  felt  her 

go; 


100  DAUBER 

He   saw   his   yard   tilt   downwards.    Then 
the  snow 

Whirled   all   about  —  dense,    multitudinous, 

cold  — 
Mixed  with  the  wind's  one  devilish  thrust 

and  shriek, 
Which  whiffled  out  men's  tears,  deafened, 

took  hold, 
Flattening    the    flying    drift    against    the 

cheek. 
The  yards  buckled  and  bent,  man  could  not 

speak. 
The  ship  lay  on  her  broadside;    the  wind's 

sound 
Had    devilish    malice    at    having    got    her 

downed. 

•— , 

*  *  *  *  * 

How  long  the  gale  had  blown  he  could  not 
tell, 


DAUBER  101 

Only  the  world  had  changed,  his  life  had 

died. 

A  moment  now  was  everlasting  hell. 
Nature    an    onslaught    from    the    weather 

side, 
A   withering   rush   of   death,    a   frost   that 

cried, 
Shrieked,  till  he  withered  at  the  heart;  a 

hail 
Plastered  his  oilskins  with  an  icy  mail. 

"Cut!"  yelled  his  mate.     He  looked  —  the 

sail  was  gone, 

Blown  into  rags  in  the  first  furious  squall; 
The    fitters    drummed    the    devil's    tattoo. 

On 
The  buckling  yard  a  block  thumped  like 

a  mall. 
The    ship    lay  —  the    sea    smote    her,    the 

wind's  bawl 


102  DAUBER 

Came,   "loo,  loo,  loo!"       The  devil  cried 

his  hounds 
On  to  the  poor  spent  stag  strayed  in  his 

bounds. 

"Cut!    Ease  her!"    yelled  his  mate;    the 

Dauber  heard. 
His  mate  wormed  up  the  tilted  yard  and 

slashed, 

A  rag  of  canvas  skimmed  like  a  darting  bird. 
The  snow  whirled,  the  ship  bowed  to  it, 

the  gear  lashed, 
The  sea-tops  were  cut  off  and  flung  down 

smashed ; 
Tatters  of  shouts  were  flung,   the  rags  of 

yells  — 
And   clang,    clang,    clang,    below   beat   the 

two  bells. 

"0  God!"   the  Dauber  moaned.    A  roar- 
ing rang, 


DA  USER  103 

Blasting  the  royals  like  a  cannonade; 

The  backstays  parted  with  a  cracking  clang, 

The  upper  spars  were  snapped  like  twigs 
decayed  — 

Snapped  at  their  heels,  their  jagged  splin- 
ters splayed, 

Like  white  and  ghastly  hair  erect  with  fear. 

The  Mate  yelled,  "Gone,  by  God,  and 
pitched  them  clear!" 

"Up!"  yelled  the  Bosun;    "up  and  clear 

the  wreck !" 

The  Dauber  followed  where  he  led :  below 
He  caught  one  giddy  glimpsing  of  the  deck 
Filled  with  white  water,  as  though  heaped 

with  snow. 

He  saw   the  streamers  of  the  rigging  blow 
Straight  out  like  pennons  from  the  splin- 
tered mast, 
Then,  all  sense  dimmed,  all  was  an  icy  blast 


104  DAUBER 

Roaring  from  nether  hell  and  filled  with  ice, 
Roaring  and  crashing  on  the  jerking  stage, 
An  utter  bridle  given  to  utter  vice, 
Limitless  power  mad  with  endless  rage 
Withering   the  soul ;  a  minute  seemed   an 

age. 
He  clutched  and  hacked  at  ropes,  at  rags 

of  sail, 
Thinking  that  comfort  was  a  fairy-tale 

Told  long  ago  —  long,  long  ago  —  long  since 
Heard      of      in      other      lives  —  imagined, 

dreamed  - 

There  where  the  basest  beggar  was  a  prince 
To    him    in    torment    where    the    tempest 

screamed, 
Comfort   and  warmth   and   ease   no  longer 

seemed 
Things  that  a  man  could  know :    soul,  body, 

brain, 


DAUBER  105 

Knew  nothing  but  the  wind,  the  cold,  the 
pain. 

" Leave  that!"  the  Bosun  shouted;  "Cro- 

jick  save !" 

The  splitting  crojick,  not  yet  gone  to  rags, 
Thundered    below,    beating    till  something 

gave, 

Bellying  between  its  buntlines  into  bags. 
Some    birds    were    blown    past,   shrieking: 

dark,  like  shags, 
Their  backs  seemed,  looking  down.     "Leu, 

leu !"  they  cried. 
The  ship  lay,  the  seas  thumped  her;  she 

had  died. 

They    reached    the    crojick    yard,     which 

buckled,  buckled 
Like    a    thin    whalebone    to    the    topsail's 

strain. 


106  DAUBER 

They  laid  upon  the  yard  and  heaved  and 

knuckled, 
Pounding  the  sail,  which  jangled  and  leapt 

again. 
It  was  quite  hard  with  ice,   its  rope  like 

chain, 
Its  strength  like  seven  devils ;  it  shook  the 

mast. 
They  cursed  and  toiled  and  froze:  a  long 

time  passed. 

Two  hours  passed,   then  a  dim  lightening 

came. 
Those    frozen    ones    upon    the   yard    could 

see 

The  mainsail  and  the  foresail  still  the  same, 
Still  battling  with  the  hands  and  blowing 

free, 
Rags  tattered  where  the  staysails  used  to 

be. 


DAUBER  107 

The    lower    topsails   stood;    the  ship's  lee 
deck 

f  water  filled  with 


wreck. 

An  hour   more  went  by;   the  Dauber  lost 
All  sense  of  hands  and  feet,  all  sense  of  all 
But  of  a  wind  that  cut  him  to  the  ghost, 
And  of  a  frozen  fold  he  had  to  haul, 
Of  heavens  that  fell  and  never  ceased  to 

fall, 

And  ran  in  smoky  snatches  along  the  sea, 
Leaping  from  crest  to  wave-crest,  yelling. 

He 

>    /*\. 

A 
Lost  sense  of  time;  no  bells  went,  but  he 

felt 

Ages  go  over  him.     At  last,  at  last 
They  frapped  the  cringled  crojick's  icy  pelt  ; 
In  frozen  bulge  and  bunt  they  made  it  fast. 


108  DAUBER 

Then,  scarcely  live,  they  laid  in  to  the  mast. 
The    Captain's    speaking    trumpet    gave    a 

blare, 
"Make  fast  the  topsail,  Mister,  while  you're 

there." 

Some  seamen  cursed,  but  up  they  had  to 
go- 

Up  to  the  topsail  yard  to  spend  an  hour 
Stowing  a  topsail  in  a  blinding  snow, 
Which  made  the  strongest  man  among  them 

cower. 
More  men  came  up,  the  fresh  hands  gave 

them  power, 
'  £f     They  stowed  the  sail ;    then  with  a  rattle 

of  chain 

j    j    One  half  the  crojick  burst  its  bonds  again. 
***** 

They  stowed  the  sail,  Trapping  it  round  with 

rope' 


DA  UBER  109 

Leaving  no  surface  for  the  wind,  no  fold, 
Then  down  the  weather  shrouds,  half  dead, 

they  grope; 
That  struggle  with  the  sail  had  made  them 

old. 
They   wondered   if   the   crojick  furl  would 

hold. 
"Lucky,"   said  one,   "it   didn't  spring  the 

spar." 
"Lucky!"   the  Bosun  said,    "Lucky!    We 

are! 

She   came   within   two   shakes   of   turning 

top 
Or    stripping    all    her    shroud-screws,  that 

first  quiff. 
Now  fish  those  wash-deck  buckets  out  of 

the  slop. 
Here's  Dauber  says  he  doesn't  like  Cape 

Stiff. 


110  DA  UBEE 

This  isn't  wind,  man,  this  is  only  a  whiff. 
Hold  on,  all  hands,  hold  on!"    a  sea,  half 

seen, 
|  jPaused,    mounted,    burst,    and    filled    the 

main-deck  green. 

The  Dauber  felt  a  mountain  of  water  fall. 
It  covered  him  deep,  deep,  he  felt  it  fill, 
Over  his  head,  the  deck,  the  fife-rails,  all, 
Quieting  the  ship,  she  trembled  and  lay 

still. 

Then  with  a  rush  and  shatter  and  clang- 
ing shrill 

Over  she  went;   he  saw  the  water  cream 
Over    the    bitts;    he    saw    the    half-deck 
stream. 

Then  in  the  rush  he  swirled,  over  she  went; 
Her  lee-rail  dipped,   he  struck,   and  some- 
thing gave; 


DAUBER  111 

His   legs  went  through   a  port   as  the   roll 

spent ; 
She  paused,  then  rolled,  and  back  the  water 

drave. 

He  drifted  with  it  as  a  part  of  the  wave, 
Drowning,   half-stunned,    exhausted,   partly 

frozen, 
He  struck  the  booby  hatchway;  then  the 

Bosun 

Leaped,  seeing  his  chance,  before  the  next 

sea  burst, 
And  caught  him  as  he  drifted,  seized  him, 

held, 

Up-ended  him  against  the  bitts,  and  cursed. 
"This  ain't  the  George's  Swimming  Baths," 

he  yelled ; 
"Keep  on  your  feet!"     Another  grey-back 

felled 
The  two  together,  and  the  Bose,  half-blind, 


112  DAUBER 

Spat:     "One's  a  joke,"   he  cursed,    "but 
two's  unkind." 

"Now,  damn  it,  Dauber!"  said  the  Mate. 

"Look  out, 
Or  you'll  be  over  the  side!"    The  water 

freed ; 

Each  clanging  freeing-port  became  a  spout. 
The  men  cleared  up  the  decks  as  there  was 

need. 

The  Dauber's  head  was  cut,  he  felt  it  bleed 
Into  his  oilskins  as  he  clutched  and  coiled. 
Water  and  sky  were  devils'  brews  which 

boiled, 

Boiled,   shrieked,   and    glowered;    but    the 

ship  was  saved. 
Snugged  safely  down,  though  fourteen  sails 

were  split. 
Out  of  the  dark  a  fiercer  fury  raved. 


DAUBER 

The   grey-backs   died   and   mounted,    each 

crest  lit 
With  a  white  toppling  gleam    that  hissed 

from  it 
And  slid,  or  leaped,  or  ran  with  whirls  of 

cloud, 
Mad  with  inhuman  life  that  shrieked  aloud. 


r 


'The  watch  was  called;  Dauber  might  go 

below. 
"Splice  the  main  brace!"  the  Mate  called. 

All  laid  aft 

To  get  a  gulp  of  momentary  glow 
As   some    reward   for    having    saved    the 

craft. 
The  steward  ladled  mugs,  from  which  each 

quaff'd 
Whisky,  with  water,  sugar,  and  lime-juice, 

hot, 
A  quarter  of  a  pint  each  made  the  tot. 


114  DAUBER 

*** 

Beside    the    lamp-room    door    the    steward 

stood 

Ladling  it  out,  and  each  man  came  in  turn, 
Tipped  his   sou'-wester,    drank  it,   grunted 

"Good!" 
And    shambled    forward,    letting    it    slowly 

burn : 
When    all    were    gone    the    Dauber    lagged 

astern, 

Torn  by  his  frozen  body's  lust  for  heat, 
The   liquor's   pleasant   smell,   so   warm,   so 

sweet, 

And  by  a  promise  long  since  made  at  home 
Never    to    taste    strong    liquor.     Now    he 

knew 
The    worth    of    liquor;      now    he    wanted 

some. 

His  frozen  body  urged  him  to  the  brew; 
Yet  it  seemed  wrong,  an  evil  thing  to  do 


DAUBER  115 

To   break   that   promise.     "Dauber,"    said 

the  Mate, 
" Drink,  and   turn  in,  man;    why  the  hell 

d'ye  wait?" 

"  Please,  sir,  I'm  temperance."  " Temper- 
ance are  you,  hey? 

That's  all  the  more  for  me !  So  you're 
for  slops? 

I  thought  you'd  had  enough  slops  for  to- 
day. 

Go  to  your  bunk  and  ease  her  when  she 
drops. 

And  —  damme,  steward  !  you  brew  with 
too  much  hops ! 

Stir  up  the  sugar,  man  !  —  and  tell  your  girl 

How  kind  the  Mate  was  teaching  you  to 
furl." 

Then  the  Mate  drank  the  remnants,  six 
men's  share, 


116  DAUBER 

And    ramped    into    his    cabin,    where    he 

stripped 
And   danced   unclad,    and   was   uproarious 

there. 

In  waltzes  with  the  cabin  cat  he  tripped, 
Singing  in  tenor  clear  that  he  was  pipped  - 
That  "he  who  strove  the  tempest  to  dis- 
arm, 

Must   never    first   embrail    the    lee    yard- 
arm," 

And  that  his  name  was  Ginger.       Dauber 

crept 
Back  to  the  round-house,  gripping  by  the 

rail. 
The  wind  howled  by ;  the  passionate  water 

leapt ; 

The  night  was  all  one  roaring  with  the  gale. 
Then  at  the  door  he  stopped,   uttering  a 

wail; 


DAUBER  117 

His  hands  were  perished  numb  and  blue  as 

veins, 
He  could  not  turn  the  knob  for  both  the 

Spains. 

A  hand  came  shuffling  aft,  dodging  the  seas, 
Singing  "her  nut-brown  hair"  between  his 

teeth ; 

Taking  the  ocean's  tumult  at  his  ease 
Even  when  the  wash  about  his  thighs  did 

seethe. 

His  soul  was  happy  in  its  happy  sheath; 
"What,    Dauber,  won't   it   open?    Fingers 

cold? 
You'll    talk    of    this    time,    Dauber,  when 

you're  old." 

He  flung  the  door  half  open,  and  a  sea 
Washed    them    both    in,    over    the    splash- 
board, down ; 


118  DAUBER 

"You    silly,    salt    miscarriage!"    sputtered 

he. 
"Dauber,    pull    out    the   plug   before   we 

drown ! 
That's    spoiled    my   laces    and   my    velvet 

gown. 
Where    is    the    plug?"    Groping   in    pitch 

dark  water, 
He  sang  between  his  teeth  "The  Farmer's 

Daughter." 

It  was  pitch  dark  within  there ;  at  each  roll 
The  chests  slid  to  the  slant;  the  water 

rushed, 

Making  full  many  a  clanging  tin  pan  bowl 
Into  the  black  below-bunks  as  it  gushed. 
The  dog-tired  men  slept  through  it;  they 

were  hushed. 
The  water  drained,  and  then  with  matches 

damp 


DAUBER  119 

The  man  struck  heads  off  till  he  lit  the  lamp. 

"Thank  you,"  the  Dauber  said;  the  sea- 
man grinned. 

"This  is  your  first  foul  weather?"  "Yes." 
"I  thought 

Up  on  the  yard  you  hadn't  seen  much  wind. 

Them's  rotten  sea-boots,  Dauber,  that  you 
brought. 

Now  I  must  cut  on  deck  before  I'm 
caught." 

He  went;  the  lamp-flame  smoked;  he 
slammed  the  door; 

A  film  of  water  loitered  across  the  floor. 

The  Dauber  watched  it  come  and  watched 

it  go; 

He  had  had  revelation  of  the  lies 
Cloaking   the   truth   men   never   choose   to 

know; 


120  DAUBER 

He   could   bear   witness   now   and    cleanse 

their  eyes. 

He  had  beheld  in  suffering;  he  was  wise; 
This  was  the  sea,  this  searcher  of  the  soul  - 
This    never-dying    shriek    fresh    from    the 

Pole. 

He  shook  with  cold;    his  hands  could  not 

undo 

His  oilskin  buttons,  so  he  shook  and  sat, 
Watching  his  dirty  fingers,  dirty  blue, 
Hearing  without  the  hammering  tackle  slat, 
Within,    the    drops    from    dripping    clothes 

went  pat, 

Running  in  little  patters,  gentle,  sweet, 
And  "Ai,   ai!"     went  the  wind,  and  the 

seas  beat. 

His  bunk  was  sopping  wet;    he  clambered 
in. 


DAUBER  121 

None   of   his   clothes   were   dry;     his   fear 

recurred. 
Cramps    bunched    the   muscles   underneath 

his  skin. 
The  great  ship  rolled  until  the  lamp  was 

blurred. 

He  took  his  Bible  and  tried  to  read  a  word ; 
Trembled  at  going  aloft  again,  and  then 
Resolved  to  fight  it  out  and  show  it  to 

men. 

Faces  recurred,  fierce  memories  of  the  yard, 
The  frozen  sail,  the  savage  eyes,  the  jests, 
The   oaths   of   one   great  seaman,  syphilis- 
scarred, 
The  tug  of  leeches  jammed  beneath  their 

chests, 
The    buntlines    bellying    bunts    out    into 

breasts. 
The  deck  so  desolate-grey,  the  sky  so  wild, 


122  DAUBER 

He  fell  asleep,  and  slept  like  a  young 
child. 

But  not  for  long;  the  cold  awoke  him 
soon, 

The  hot-ache  and  the  skin-cracks  and  the 
cramp, 

The  seas  thundering  without,  the  gale's 
wild  tune, 

The  sopping  misery  of  the  blankets  damp. 

A  speaking-trumpet  roared;  a  sea-boot's 
stamp 

Clogged  at  the  door.  A  man  entered  to 
shout : 

"All  hands  on  deck  !  Arouse  here  !  Tum- 
ble out!" 

The   caller  raised  the  lamp;     his  oilskins 

clicked 
As   the  thin  ice  upon   them   cracked  and 

fell. 


DAUBER  123 

" Rouse    out!"    he    said.      "This  lamp  is 

frozen  wick'd. 
Rouse  out!"       His  accent  deepened  to  a 

yell. 
"We're    among  ice;  it's  blowing    up    like 

hell. 
We're  going  to  hand  both  topsails.      Time, 

I  guess, 
We're    sheeted    up.        Rouse    out !    Don't 

stay  to  dress !" 

"Is  it  cold  on  deck?"    said  Dauber.    "Is 

it  cold? 

We're  sheeted  up,  I  tell  you,  inches  thick ! 
The    fo'c'sle's    like    a    wedding-cake,    I'm 

told. 
Now  tumble  out,  my  sons;  on  deck  here, 

quick ! 
Rouse  out,  away,  and  come  and  climb  the 

stick. 


124  DAUBER 

I'm   going   to   call   the   half-deck.     Bosun ! 

Hey! 
Both    topsails    coming    in.      Heave    out ! 

Away!" 

He  went ;     the  Dauber  tumbled  from  his 

bunk, 
Clutching  the  side.     He  heard  the  wind  go 

past, 

Making  the  great  ship  wallow  as  if  drunk. 
There  was  a  shocking  tumult  up  the  mast. 
"This  is  the  end,"  he  muttered,  "come  at 

last! 

I've  got  to  go  aloft,  facing  this  cold. 
I  can't.     I  can't.     I'll  never  keep  my  hold. 

"I   cannot   face   the   topsail   yard   again. 
I  never  guessed  what  misery  it  would  be." 
The  cramps  and  hot-ache  made  him  sick 
with  pain. 


DAUBER  125 

The  ship  stopped  suddenly  from  a  devilish 

sea, 
Then,  with  a  triumph  of  wash,  a  rush  of 

glee, 

The  door  burst  in,  and  in  the  water  rolled, 
Filling  the  lower   bunks,   black,   nrftfl.mingT 

cold. 

The   lamp   sucked   out.      "Wash!"    went 

the  water  back, 

Then  in  again,  flooding;    the  Bosun  swore. 
"You   useless   thing!    You    Dauber!    You 

lee  slack ! 

Get  out,  you  heekapoota  !     Shut  the  door  ! 
You    coo-ilyaira,    what    are    you    waiting 

for? 
Out  of  my  way,   you  thing  —  you  useless 

thing!" 
He  slammed  the  door  indignant,   clanging 

the  ring. 


126  DAUBER 

And  then  he  lit  the  lamp,  drowned  to  the 
waist; 

"Here's  a  fine  house !  Get  at  the  scupper- 
holes  "- 

He  bent  against  it  as  the  water  raced  - 

"And  pull  them  out  to  leeward  when  she 
rolls. 

They  say  some  kinds  of  landsmen  don't 
have  souls. 

I  well  believe.    A  Port  Mahon  baboon 

Would  make  more  soul  than  you  got  with 
a  spoon." 

Down  in  the  icy  water  Dauber  groped 
To  find  the  plug ;  the  racing  water  sluiced 
Over  his  head  and  shoulders  as  she  sloped. 
Without,  judged  by  the  sound,  all  hell  was 

loosed. 
He    felt    cold    Death    about    him    tightly 

noosed. 


DAUBER  127 

That   Death   was   better   than  the  misery 

there 
Iced  on  the  quaking  foothold  high  in  air. 

And  then  the  thought  came:  "I'm  a  failure. 
All 

My  life  has  been  a  failure.  They  were 
right. 

It  will  not  matter  if  I  go  and  fall; 

I  should  be  free  then  from  this  hell's  de- 
light. 

I'll  never  paint.    Best  let  it  end  to-night. 

I'll  slip  over  the  side.  I've  tried  and 
failed." 

So  in  the  ice-cold  in  the  night  he  quailed. 

***? 
_  _  j 

v 

Death  would  be  better,   death,   than  this 

long  hell 

Of  mockery  and  surrender  and  dismay  — 

This   long   defeat  of   doing   nothing   well, 


128  DAUBER 

Playing    the    part    too    high    for    him    to 

play. 

"0  Death  !  who  hides  the  sorry  thing  away, 
Take  me ;    I've  failed.     I  cannot  play  these 

cards." 
There  came  a  thundering  from  the  topsail 

yards. 


And  then  he  bit  his  lips,  clenching  his 
mind, 

And  staggered  out  to  muster,  beating  back 

The  coward  frozen  self  of  him  that  whined. 

Come  what  cards  might  he  meant  to  play 
the  pack. 

"Ai!"  screamed  the  wind;  the  topsail 
sheet  went  clack; 

Ice  filled  the  air  with  spikes;  the  grey- 
backs  burst. 

" Here's  Dauber,"  said  the  Mate,  "on  deck 
the  first. 


DAUBER  129 

"Why,  holy  sailor,  Dauber,  you're  a  man! 
I  took  you  for  a  soldier.     Up  now,  come!" 
Up  on  the  yards  already  they  began 
That  battle  with  a  gale  which  strikes  men 

dumb. 

The  leaping  topsail  thundered  like  a  drum. 
The  frozen  snow  beat  in  the  face  like  shots. 
The  wind  spun  whipping  wave-crests  into 

clots. 

So  up  upon  the  topsail  yard  again, 

In  the  great  tempest's  fiercest  hour,  began 

iA 
Probation  to  the  Dauber's  soul,  of  pain 

Which  crowds  a  century's  torment  in  a  span. 
For  the  next  month  the  ocean  taught  this 

man, 
And   he,   in   that   month's   torment,   while 

she  wested, 
Was   never   warm   nor   dry,    nor   full    nor 

rested. 


130  DAUBER 

But  still  it  blew,  or,  if  it  lulled,  it  rose 
Within  the  hour  and  blew  again;  and  still 
The  water  as  it  burst  aboard  her  froze. 
The  wind  blew  off  an  ice-field,  raw  and  chill, 
Daunting  man's  body,  tampering  with  his 

will; 

But  after  thirty  days  a  ghostly  sun 
Gave  sickly  promise  that  the  storms  were 

done. 

VII 

A  GREAT  grey  sea  was  running  up  the  sky, 
Desolate  birds  flew  past;     their  mewings 

came 

As  that  lone  water's  spiritual  cry, 
Its  forlorn  voice,  its  essence,  its  soul's  name. 
The  ship  limped  in  the  water  as  if  lame. 
Then  in   the   forenoon   watch   to   a   great 

shout 


DAUBER  131 

More  sail  was  made,  the  reefs  were  shaken 
out. 

A  slant  came  from  the  south;  the  singers 

stood 

Clapped  to  the  halliards,  hauling  to  a  tune, 
Old  as  the  sea,  a  fillip  to  the  blood. 
The  upper  topsail  rose  like  a  balloon. 
"So     long,     Cape     Stiff.       In   Valparaiso 

soon," 

Said  one  to  other,  as  the  ship  lay  over, 
Making  her  course  again  —  again  a  rover. 

Slowly   the   sea   went   down   as   the   wind 

fell. 
Clear  rang  the  songs,  "Hurrah !  Cape  Horn 

is  bet!" 

The  combless  seas  were  lumping  into  swell; 
The  leaking  fo'c'sles  were  no  longer  wet. 
More  sail  was  made;  the  watch  on  deck 

was  set 


132  DAUBER 

To  cleaning  up  the  ruin  broken  bare 
Below,  aloft,  about  her,  everywhere. 

The  Dauber,  scrubbing  out  the  round- 
house, found 

Old  pantiles  pulped  among  the  mouldy 
gear, 

Washed  underneath  the  bunks  and  long 
since  drowned 

During  the  agony  of  the  Cape  Horn  year. 

He  sang  in  scrubbing,  for  he  had  done  with 
/ 

fear  — 

Fronted   the   worst   and   looked   it   in   the 

face  ; 
He  had  got  manhood  at  the  testing-place. 

Singing    he    scrubbed,    passing    his    watch 

below, 
Making  the  round-house  fair;     the  Bosun 

watched, 


DAUBER  133 

fringing  his  knitting  slowly  to  the  toe.  y 
Sails   stretched   a   mizen   skysail   which  he 

patched ; 
They  thought  the  Dauber  was  a  bad  egg 

hatched. 
"Daubs,"  said  the  Bosun  cheerly,  "can  you 

knit? 
I've   made    a   Barney's   bull    of    this    last 

bit." 

Then,    while   the   Dauber   counted,    Bosun 

took 
Some   marline   from   his   pocket.     "Here," 

he  said, 
"You   want   to   know   square   sennit ?    So 

fash.     Look ! 
Eight  foxes  take,   and  stop  the  ends  with 

thread. 
I've    known    an    engineer   would    give   his 

head 


134  DAUBER 

To    know    square    sennit."    As    the    Bose 

began, 
The  Dauber  felt  promoted  into  man. 

It  was  his  warrant  that  he  had  not  failed  - 
That  the  most  hard  part  in  his  difficult 

climb 
Had   not   been   past   attainment;     it   was 

scaled : 
Safe    footing    showed    above    the    slippery 

slime. 

He  had  emerged  out  of  the  iron  time, 
And  knew  that  he  could  compass  his  life's 

scheme ; 
He  had  the  power  sufficient  to  his  dream. 

Then  dinner  came,  and  now  the  sky  was 

blue. 
The  ship  was  standing  north,  the  Horn  was 

rounded ; 


DAUBER  135 

She   made   a   thundering   as   she   weltered 

through. 
The    mighty    grey-backs    glittered    as    she 

bounded. 
More  sail  was  piled  upon  her;     she  was 

hounded 
North,  while  the  wind  came;   like  a  stag 

she  ran 
Over  grey  hills  and  hollows  of  seas  wan. 

She  had  a  white  bone  in  her  mouth :    she 

sped ;  J^v 

o^"** 

Those  in  the  round-house  watched  her  as 

they  ate 
Their  meal  of  pork-fat  fried  with  broken 

bread. 
"Good  old!"  they  cried.     "She's  off;  she's 

gathering  gait !" 
Her  track  was  whitening  like  a  Lammas 

spate. 


136  DAUBER 

"Good   old!"  they   cried.     "Oh,    give   her 

cloth !    Hurray ! 
For  three  weeks  more  to  Valparaiso  Bay ! 

"She  smells  old  Vallipo,"  the  Bosun  cried. 
"We'll  be  inside  the  tier  in  three  weeks 

more, 

Lying  at  double-moorings  where  they  ride 
Off  of  the  market,  half  a  mile  from  shore, 
And  bumboat  pan,  my  sons,  and  figs  galore, 
And  girls  in  black  mantillas  fit  to  make  a 
Poor  seaman  frantic  when  they  dance  the 

cueca." 

Eight    bells    were    made,    the    watch    was 

changed,  and  now 
The  Mate  spoke  to  the  Dauber:    "This  is 

better. 
We'll  soon  be  getting  mudhooks  over  the 

bow. 


DAUBER  137 

She'll  make  her  passage  still  if  this'll  let 

her. 
Oh,   run,   you   drogher !     dip  your  foVsle 

wetter. 
Well,    Dauber,    this   is   better    than    Cape 

Horn. 
Them  topsails  made  you  wish  you'd  not 

been  born." 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  Dauber  said.  "Now,"  said 
the  Mate, 

"We've  got  to  smart  her  up.  Them  Cape 
Horn  seas 

Have  made  her  paint-work  like  a  rusty  grate. 

Oh,  didn't  them  topsails  make  your  fish- 
hooks freeze? 

A  topsail  don't  pay  heed  to  'Won't  you, 
please  ? ' 

Well,  you  have  seen  Cape  Horn,  my  son; 

you've  learned. 

^ 


138  DAUBER 

You've   dipped  your  hand   and   had  your 
fingers  burned. 

"And   now   you'll   stow   that   folly,    trying 

to  paint. 
You've  had  your  lesson;     you're  a  sailor 

now. 

You  come  on  board  a  female  ripe  to  faint. 
All  sorts  of  slush  you'd  learned,  the  Lord 

knows  how. 
Cape  Horn  has  sent  you  wisdom  over  the 

bow 
If  you've  got  sense  to  take  it.    You're  a 

sailor. 
My  God  !  before  you  were  a  woman's  tailor. 

"So  throw  your  paints  to  blazes  and  have 

done. 
Words  can't  describe  the  silly  things  you 

did 


DAUBER  139 

Sitting  before  your  easel  in  the  sun, 
With    all    your    colours    on    the    paint-box 

lid. 
I  blushed  for  you  .  .  .  and  then  the  daubs 

you  hid. 
My  God !  you'll  have  more  sense  now,  eh  ? 

You've  quit?" 
"No,    sir."     "You've    not?"     "No,    sir." 

"God  give  you  wit. 

"I  thought  you'd  come  to  wisdom."    Thus 

they  talked, 
While  the  great  clipper  took  her  bit  and 

rushed 
Like    a    skin-glistening    stallion    not    yet 

baulked, 
Till   fire-bright   water   at   her   swing   ports 

gushed ; 
Poising    and    bowing    down    her    fore-foot 

crushed 


140  DA  UBER 

Bubble  on  glittering  bubble;  on  she  went. 
The  Dauber  watched  her,  wondering  what 
it  meant. 

To  come,  after  long  months,  at  rosy  dawn, 
Into  the  placid  blue  of  some  great  bay. 
Treading  the  quiet  water  like  a  fawn 
Ere  yet  the  morning  haze  was  blown  away. 
A  rose-flushed  figure  putting  by  the  grey, 
And  anchoring  there  before  the  city  smoke 
Rose,  or  the  church-bells  rang,  or  men 
awoke. 

And  then,  in  the  first  light,  to  see  grow 
clear 

That  long-expected  haven  filled  with 
strangers  — 

Alive  with  men  and  women;    see  and  hear 

Its  clattering  market  and  its  money- 
changers ; 


DAUBER  141 

And  hear  the  surf  beat,  and  be  free  from 

dangers, 
And  watch  the  crinkled  ocean  blue  with 

calm 
Drowsing  beneath  the  Trade,  beneath  the 

palm. 

Hungry    for    that    he    worked;      the    hour 

went  by, 
And  still  the  wind  grew,   still  the  clipper 

strode, 
And    now    a     darkness     hid    the    western 

sky, 
And  sprays  came  flicking  off  at  the  wind's 

goad. 

She  stumbled  now,  feeling  her  sail  a  load. 
The  Mate  gazed  hard  to  windward,  eyed 

his  sail, 
And  said  the  Horn  was  going  to  flick  her 

tail. 


142  DAUBER 

Boldly  he  kept  it  on  her  till  she  staggered, 

But  still  the  wind  increased ;  it  grew,  it 
grew, 

Darkening  the  sky,  making  the  water  hag- 
gard; 

Full  of  small  snow  the  mighty  wester  blew. 

"More  fun  for  little  fish-hooks,"  sighed 
the  crew. 

They  eyed  the  taut  topgallants  stiff  like 
steel ; 

A  second  hand  was  ordered  to  the  wheel. 

The  Captain  eyed  her  aft,  sucking  his  lip, 
Feeling  the  sail  too  much,  but  yet  refrain- 
ing 

From  putting  hobbles  on  the  leaping  ship, 
The    glad    sea-shattering    stallion,    halter- 
straining, 

Wing-musical,  uproarious,  and  complain- 
ing; 


DAUBER  143 

But,  in  a  gust,  he  cocked  his  finger,  so : 
"  You'd  better  take  them  off,  before  they 


go." 


All  saw.  They  ran  at  once  without  the 
word 

"Lee-ay!  Lee-ay!"  Loud  rang  the  clew- 
line cries; 

Sam  in  his  bunk  within  the  half-deck  heard, 

Stirred  in  his  sleep,  and  rubbed  his  drowsy 
eyes. 

"There  go  the  lower  to'gallants."  Against 
the  skies 

Rose  the  thin  bellying  strips  of  leaping 
sail. 

The  Dauber  was  the  first  man  over  the 
rail. 

Three  to  a  mast  they  ran;    it  was  a  race. 
"God!"    said   the   Mate;    "that   Dauber, 
he  can  go." 


144  DAUBER 

He  watched  the  runners  with  an  upturned 

face 

Over  the  futtocks,   struggling  heel  to  toe, 
Up    to    the    topmast   cross-trees    into    the 

blow 
Where     the     three     sails     were     leaping. 

"Dauber  wins !" 
The  yards  were  reached,  and  now  the  race 

begins. 

Which   three  will   furl   their   sail   first  and 

come  down? 

Out  to  the  yard-arm  for  the  leech  goes  one, 
His    hair    blown    flagwise    from    a    hatless 

crown, 

His  hands  at  work  like  fever  to  be  done. 
Out  of  the  gale  a  fiercer  fury  spun. 
The   three   sails   leaped    together,    yanking 

high, 
Like  talons  darting  up  to  clutch  the  sky. 


DAUBER  145 

The  Dauber  on  the  fore-topgallant  yard 
Out  at  the  weather  yard-arm  was  the  first 
To  lay  his  hand  upon  the  buntline-barred 
Topgallant  yanking  to  the  wester's  burst; 
He  craned  to  catch  the  leech;  his  comrades 

cursed ; 
One    at    the    buntlines,    one    with    oaths 

observed, 
"The    eye    of    the    outer    jib-stay    isn't 

served." 

"No,"  said  the  Dauber.  "No,"  the  man 
replied. 

They  heaved,  stowing  the  sail,  not  looking 
round, 

Panting,   but   full   of   life   and   eager-eyed; 

The  gale  roared  at  them  with  its  iron 
sound. 

"That's  you,"  the  Dauber  said.  His  gas- 
ket wound 


146  DAUBER 

/Swift  round  the  yard,  binding  the  sail  in 
bands ; 
There  came  a  gust,  the  sail  leaped  from  his 
hands, 

So  that  he  saw  it  high  above  him,   grey, 
And   there  his  mate  was  falling;  quick  he 

clutched 

An  arm  in  oilskins  swiftly  snatched  away. 
A    voice    said    " Christ!"      a    quick    shape 

stooped  and  touched, 

Chain  struck  his  hands,  ropes  shot,  the  sky 
•7 '    -        '  was  smutched 

With  vast  black  fires  that  ran,   that  fell, 
ylr 

that  furled, 

And  then  he  saw  the  mast,  the  small  snow 
hurled, 

The   fore-topgallant  yard   far,   far   aloft, 
And  blankness  settling  on  him  and  great 
pain ; 


DAUBER  147 

snow  beneath  his  fingers  wet  and  soft, 
And    topsail    sheet-blocks    shaking    at    the 

chain. 

i^~>     ' 

He  knew  it  was  he  who  had  fallen ;  then  his  *$y?\ 

brain 

Swirled  in  a  circle  while  he  watched  the  sky. 
Infinite  multitudes  of  snow  blew  by. 

•••* 

"I  thought  it  was  Tom  who  fell,"  his  brain's 
voice  said. 

"Down  on  the  bloody  deck!"  the  Cap- 
tain screamed. 

The  multitudinous  little   snow-flakes  sped. 

His  pain  was  real  enough,  but  all  else 
seemed. 

Si  with  a  bucket  ran,  the  water  gleamed 

Tilting  upon  him;  others  came,  the 
Mate  .  .  . 

They  knelt  with  eager  eyes  like  things  that 
wait 


148  DAUBER 

For  other  things  to  come.     He  saw  them 

there. 

"It  will  go  on,"  he  murmured,  watching  Si. 
Colours  and   sounds  seemed  mixing  in   the 

air, 
The  pain  was  stunning  him,  and  the  wind 

went  by. 
"More    water,"    said    the    Mate.     "Here, 

Bosun,  try. 

Ask  if  he's  got  a  message.     Hell,  he's  gone  ! 
Here,   Dauber,  paints."     He  said,   "It  will 

go  on." 

Not  knowing  his  meaning  rightly,  but  he 

spoke 

With  the  intenseness  of  a  fading  soul 
Whose  share  of  Nature's  fire  turns  to  smoke, 
Whose    hand     on     Nature's     wheel     loses 

control. 
The  eager  faces  glowered  red  like  coal. 


DAUBER  149 

They  glowed,  the  great  storm  glowed,  the 

sails,  the  mast. 
"It  will  go  on/'  he  cried  aloud,  and  passed. 

X 

I 

Those  from  the  yard  came  down  to  tell 

the  tale. 
"He  almost  had  me  off,"  said  Tom.     "He 

slipped. 
There  come  one  hell  of  a  jump-like  from 

the  sail.  .  .  . 
He   clutched   at   me   and   almost   had   me 

pipped. 
He   caught   my   'ris'band,   but   the   oilskin 

ripped.  .  .  . 
It  tore  clean  off.     Look  here.    I  was  near 

gone. 
I  made  a  grab  to  catch  him;  so  did  John. 

"I  caught  his  arm.    My  God  !    I  was  near 
done. 


150  DAUBER 

He  almost  had  me  over;    it  was  near. 
He  hit  the  ropes  and  grabbed  at  every  one." 
"Well,"  said  the  Mate,  "we  cannot  leave 

him  here. 

Run,  Si,  and  get  the  half-deck  table  clear. 
We'll    lay    him    there.     Catch    hold    there, 

you,  and  you, 
He's  dead,  poor  son;  there's  nothing  more 

to  do." 

Night  fell,  and  all  night  long  the  Dauber 

lay 

Covered  upon  the  table;    all  night  long 
The  pitiless  storm  exulted  at  her  prey, 
Huddling   the  waters  with   her  icy  thong. 
But  to  the  covered  shape  she  did  no  wrong. 
He    lay    beneath    the    sailcloth.      Bell    by 

bell 
The   night   wore   through;   the  stars  rose, 

the  stars  fell. 


DAUBER  151 

Blowing  most  pitiless  cold  out  of  clear  sky 
The  wind  roared  all  night  long;  and  all 

night  through 

The  green  seas  on  the  deck  went  washing  by, 
Flooding  the  half -deck ;    bitter  hard  it  blew. 
But  little  of  it  all  the  Dauber  knew  — 
The    sopping    bunks,    the    floating    chests, 

the  wet, 
The'  darkness,    and    the   misery,    and    the 

sweat. 

He  was  off  duty.     So  it  blew  all  night, 
And  when   the  watches  changed  the  men 

would  come 

Dripping  within  the  door  to  strike  a  light 
And  stare  upon  the  Dauber  lying  dumb, 
And  say,  "He  come  a  cruel  thump,  poor 

chum." 
Or,    "He'd   a-been   a   fine   big   man;"  or, 

"He  . 


152  DAUBER 

A  smart  young  seaman  he  was  getting  to 
be." 

Or,   "Damn  it  all,  it's  what  we've  all  to 

face !  .  . 

I  knew  another  fellow  one  time  ..."  then 
Came  a  strange  tale  of  death  in  a  strange 

place 
Out  on  the  sea,  in  ships,  with  wandering 

men. 

In  many  ways  Death  puts  us  into  pen. 
The  reefers   came   down   tired   and   looked 

and  slept. 
Below  the  skylight  little  dribbles  crept 

Along    the    painted    woodwork,    glistening, 

slow, 

Following  the  roll  and  dripping,  never  fast, 
But  dripping  on  the  quiet  form  below, 
Like  passing  time  talking  to  time  long  past. 


DA  USER  158 

And  all  night  long  "Ai,  ai !"  went  the  wind's 

blast, 
And    creaming    water    swished    below    the 

pale, 
Unheeding  body  stretched  beneath  the  sail. 

At  dawn  they  sewed  him  up,  and  at  eight 

bells 
They   bore   him   to    the   gangway,    wading 

deep, 
Through  the  green-clutching,  white-toothed 

water-hells 

That  flung  his  carriers  over  in  their  sweep. 
They  laid  an  old  red  ensign  on  the  heap, 
And  all  hands  stood  bare-headed,  stooping, 

swaying, 
Washed  by  the  sea  while  the  old  man  was 

praying 

Out  of  a  borrowed  prayer-book.    At  a  sign 


154  DAUB  EH 

They  twitched  the  ensign  back  and  tipped 

the  grating 
A   creamier   bubbling   broke    the   bubbling 

A. 

brine. 
The    muffled    figure    tilted    to    the   weight- 

' 


dwindled  slowly  down,  slowly  gyrating. 

v- 

Some  craned  to  see;  it  dimmed,  it  disap- 
peared ; 

The  last  green  milky  bubble  blinked  and 
cleared. 

"Mister,  shake  out  your  reefs,"  the  Cap- 
tain called. 

"Out  topsail  reefs!"  the  Mate  cried;  then 
all  hands 

Hurried,  the  great  sails  shook,  and  all  hands 
hauled, 

Singing  that  desolate  song  of  lonely  lands, 

Of  how  a  lover  came  in  dripping  bands, 


DA  UBER  155 

Green  with  the  wet  and  cold,  to  tell  his 

lover 
That  Death  was  in  the  sea,   and  all  was 

over. 

Fair  came  the  falling  wind;  a  seaman  said 
The  Dauber  was  a  Jonah ;    once  again 
The  clipper  held  her  course,   showing  red 

lead, 

Shattering   the   sea-tops   into   golden   rain. 
The    waves    bowed    down    before   her   like 

blown  grain ; 
Onwards   she    thundered,    on;    her   voyage 

was  short, 
Before  the  tier's  bells  rang  her  into  port. 

Cheerly   they  rang    her   in,    those    beating 

bells, 

The  new-come  beauty  stately  from  the  sea, 
Whitening  the  blue  heave   of   the   drowsy 

swells, 


156  DAUBER 

Treading  the  bubbles  down.     With  three 

times  three 
They  cheered  her  moving  beauty  in,   and 

she 

Came  to  her  berth  so  noble,  so  superb; 
Swayed  like  a  queen,  and  answered  to  the 

curb. 

Then  in  the  sunset's  flush  they  went  aloft, 
And  unbent  sails  in  that  most  lovely  hour, 
When  the  light  gentles  and  the  wind  is  soft, 
(And  beauty  in  the  heart  breaks  like  a  flower.) 
Working    aloft    they    saw    the    mountain 

tower, 

Snow  to  the  peak;  they  heard  the  launch- 
men  shout; 

And  bright  along  the  bay  the  lights  came 
out. 

And  then  the  night  fell  dark,  and  all  night 
long 


DAUBER  157 

The  pointed  mountain  pointed  at  the  stars, 

^ *^ ««^ **" 

Frozen,  alert,  austere;    the  eagle's  song 
Screamed    from    her    desolate    screes    and 

splintered  scars. 

On  her  intense  crags  where  the  air  is  sparse 
The  stars  looked  down;  their  many  golden 

J    «    A^*-*~^ 

eyes 

Watched  her  and  burned,  burned  out,  and 
came  to  rise. 

Silent  the  finger  of  the  summit  stood,  *~ 

Icy  in  pure,  thin  air,  glittering  with  snows.  V>- 

Then  the  sun's  coming  turned  the  peak  to 

blood,    ^ 

And  in  the  rest-house  the  muleteers  arose.  ^ 
And   all   day   long,    where   only   the   eagle 

goes,  \r 
Stones,  loosened  by  the  sun,  fall ;  the  stones 

falling      a 
Fill  empty  gorge  on  gorge  with  echoes  calling.  *_^- 


EXPLANATIONS     OF     SOME    OF     THE     SEA 
TERMS  USED  IN  THE  POEM 

Backstays.  Wire  ropes  which  support  the  masts 
against  lateral  and  after  strains. 

Barney's  bull.  A  figure  in  marine  proverb.  A  jewel 
in  marine  repartee. 

Bells.  Two  bells  (one  forward,  one  aft)  which  are 
struck  every  half-hour  in  a  certain  manner  to 
mark  the  passage  of  the  watches. 

Bitts.  Strong  wooden  structures  (built  round  each 
mast)  upon  which  running  rigging  is  secured. 

Block.    A  sheaved  pulley. 

Boatswain.  A  supernumerary  or  idler,  generally  at- 
tached to  the  mate's  watch,  and  holding  consid- 
erable authority  over  the  crew. 

Bouilli  tin.  Any  tin  that  contains,  or  has  contained, 
preserved  meat. 

Bows.    The  forward  extremity  of  a  ship. 

Brace-blocks.  Pulleys  through  which  the  braces 
travel. 

Braces.  Ropes  by  which  the  yards  are  inclined  for- 
ward or  aft. 

Bumboat  pan.  Soft  bread  sold  by  the  bumboat  man, 
a  kind  of  sea  costermonger  who  trades  with  ships 
in  port. 

Bunt.  Those  cloths  of  a  square  sail  which  are  nearest 
to  the  mast  when  the  sail  is  set.  The  central 
portion  of  a  furled  square  sail.  The  human  ab- 
domen (figuratively). 

158 


DA  USER  159 

Buntlines.     Ropes  which  help  to  confine  square  sails 

to  the  yards  in  the  operation  of  furling. 
Chocks.    Wooden  stands  on  which  the  boats  rest. 
Cleats.     Iron  or  wooden  contrivances  to  which  ropes 

may  be  secured. 
Clew-lines.    Ropes  by  which  the  lower  corners  of 

square  sails  are  lifted. 
Clews.    The  lower  corners  of  square  sails. 
Clipper.    A  title  of  honour  given  to  ships  of  more 

than  usual  speed  and  beauty. 
Coaming.    The  raised  rim  of  a  hatchway;  a  barrier 

at  a  doorway  to  keep  water  from  entering. 
Courses.    The  large  square  sails  set  upon  the  lower 

yards  of  sailing  ships.    The  mizen  course  is  called 

the  "  crojick." 
Cringled.    Fitted  with  iron  rings  or  cringles,  many 

of  which  are  let  into  sails  or  sail-roping  for  various 

purposes. 
Crojick  (or  cross-jack).    A  square  sail  set  upon  the 

lower  yard  of  the  mizen  mast. 
Dungarees.    Thin    blue    or    khaki-coloured    overalls 

made  from  cocoanut  fibre. 
Fairleads.    Rings  of  wood  or  iron  by  means  of  which 

running  rigging  is  led  in  any  direction. 
Fife-rails.    Strong  wooden  shelves   fitted  with   iron 

pins,  to  which  ropes  may  be  secured. 
Fish-hooks.     I.e.,  fingers. 
Foot-ropes.     Ropes  on  which  men  stand  when  working 

aloft. 
Fo'c'sle.    The  cabin  or  cabins  in  which  the  men  are 

berthed.    It  is  usually  an  iron  deck-house  divided 

through  the  middle  into  two  compartments  for 

the  two  watches,  and  fitted  with  wooden  bunks. 


160  DAUBER 

Sometimes  it  is  even  fitted  with  lockers  and  an 
iron  water-tank. 

Foxes.  Strands,  yarns,  or  arrangements  of  yarns  of 
rope. 

Freeing-ports.  Iron  doors  in  the  ship's  side  which 
open  outwards  to  free  the  decks  of  water. 

Frap.     To  wrap  round  with  rope. 

Futtock-shrouds.  Iron  bars  to  which  the  topmast 
rigging  is  secured.  As  they  project  outward  and 
upward  from  the  masts  they  are  difficult  to  clam- 
ber over. 

Galley.    The  ship's  kitchen. 

Gantline  (girtline).  A  rope  used  for  the  sending  of 
sails  up  and  down  from  aloft. 

Gaskets.  Ropes  by  which  the  sails  are  secured  in 
furling. 

Half-deck.  A  cabin  or  apartment  in  which  the  ap- 
prentices are  berthed.  Its  situation  is  usually 
the  ship's  waist ;  but  it  is  sometimes  further  aft, 
and  occasionally  it  is  under  the  poop  or  even  right 
forward  under  the  top-gallant  fo'c'sle. 

Halliards.     Ropes  by  which  sails  are  hoisted. 

Harness-room.  An  office  or  room  from  which  the 
salt  meat  is  issued,  and  in  which  it  is  sometimes 
stored. 

Hawse.    The  bows  or  forward  end  of  a  ship. 

Head.  The  forward  part  of  a  ship.  That  upper 
edge  of  a  square  sail  which  is  attached  to  the  yard. 

House-flag.  The  special  flag  of  the  firm  to  which  a 
ship  belongs. 

Idlers.  The  members  of  the  round-house  mess,  gener- 
ally consisting  of  the  carpenter,  cook,  sailmaker, 
boatswain,  painter,  etc.,  are  known  as  the  idlers. 


DAUBER  161 

Jack  (or  jackstay).  An  iron  bar  (fitted  along  all  yards 
in  sailing  ships)  to  which  the  head  of  a  square 
sail  is  secured  when  bent. 

Kites.     Light  upper  sails. 

Leeches.  The  outer  edges  of  square  sails.  In  furling 
some  square  sails  the  leech  is  dragged  inwards 
till  it  lies  level  with  the  head  upon  the  surface  of 
the  yard.  This  is  done  by  the  first  man  who  gets 
upon  the  yard,  beginning  at  the  weather  side. 

Logship.  A  contrivance  by  which  a  ship's  speed  is 
measured. 

Lower  topsail.  The  second  sail  from  the  deck  on  square 
rigged  masts.  It  is  a  very  strong,  important  sail. 

Marline.  Tarry  line  or  coarse  string  made  of  rope- 
yarns  twisted  together. 

Mate.  The  First  or  Chief  Mate  is  generally  called  the 
Mate. 

Mizen-topmast-head.  The  summit  of  the  second  of 
the  three  or  four  spars  which  make  the  complete 
mizen-mast. 

Mudhooks.     Anchors. 

Pins.  Iron  or  wooden  bars  to  which  running  rigging 
is  secured. 

Pointing.  A  kind  of  neat  plait  with  which  ropes  are 
sometimes  ended  off  or  decorated. 

Poop-break.  The  forward  end  of  the  after  superstruc- 
ture. 

Ratlines.  The  rope  steps  placed  across  the  shrouds 
to  enable  the  seamen  to  go  aloft. 

Reefers.    Apprentices. 

Reef-points.  Ropes  by  which  the  area  of  some  sails 
may  be  reduced  in  the  operation  of  reefing.  Reef- 
points  are  securely  fixed  to  the  sails  fitted  with 


162  DAUBER 

them,  and  when  not  in  use  their  ends  patter  con- 
tinually upon  the  canvas  with  a  gentle  drumming 

noise. 

Reel.    A  part  of  the  machinery  used  with  a  logship. 
Round-house.    A  cabin  (of  all  shapes  except  round) 

in  which  the  idlers  are  berthed. 
Royals.     Light  upper  square  sails;  the  fourth,  fifth, 

or  sixth  sails  from  the  deck  according  to  the  mast's 

rig. 
Sail-room.    A  large  room  or  compartment  in  which 

the  ship's  sails  are  stored. 
"  Sails."    The  sailmaker  is  meant. 
Scuttle-butt.    A  cask  containing  fresh  water. 
Shackles.     Rope  handles  for  a  sea-chest. 
Sheet-blocks.     Iron  blocks,  by  means  of  which  sails 

are  sheeted  home.     In  any  violent  wind  they  beat 

upon  the  mast  with  great  rapidity  and  force. 
Sheets.    Ropes   or   chains  which   extend   the   lower 

corners  of  square  sails  in  the  operation  of  sheeting 

home. 
Shifting  suits  (of  sails).    The  operation  of  removing 

a  ship's  sails,  and  replacing  them  with  others. 
Shrouds.    Wire  ropes  of  great  strength,  which  support 

lateral  strains  on  masts. 
Shroud-screws.    Iron  contrivances  by  which  shrouds 

are  hove  taut. 
Sidelights.    A  sailing  ship  carries  two  of  these  between 

sunset  and  sunrise :  one  green,  to  starboard ;  one 

red,  to  port. 
Sights.    Observations  to  help  in  the  finding  of  a  ship's 

position. 
Skid.    A  wooden  contrivance  on  which  ship's  boats 

rest. 


DAUBER  163 

Skysails.  The  uppermost  square  sails ;  the  fifth,  sixth, 
or  seventh  sails  from  the  deck  according  to  the 
mast's  rig. 

Slatting.    The  noise  made  by  sails  flogging  in  the  wind. 

Slush.    Grease,  melted  fat. 

South-wester.  A  kind  of  oilskin  hat.  A  gale  from  the 
south-west. 

Spit  brown.     To  chew  tobacco. 

Square  sennit.  A  cunning  plait  which  makes  a  four- 
square bar. 

Staysails.  Fore  and  aft  sails  set  upon  the  stays  be- 
tween the  masts. 

Stow.    To  furl. 

Strop  (the,  putting  on).  A  strop  is  a  grument  or  rope 
ring.  The  two  players  kneel  down  facing  each 
other,  the  strop  is  placed  over  their  heads,  and 
the  men  then  try  to  pull  each  other  over  by  the 
strength  of  their  neck-muscles. 

Swing  ports.  Iron  doors  in  the  ship's  side  which  open 
outwards  to  free  the  decks  from  water. 

Tackle  (pronounced  "taykel").  Blocks,  ropes,  pul- 
leys, etc. 

Take  a  caulk.    To  sleep  upon  the  deck. 

Topsails.  The  second  and  third  sails  from  the  deck 
on  the  masts  of  a  modern  square-rigged  ship  are 
known  as  the  lower  and  upper  topsails. 

Trucks.    The  summits  of  the  masts. 

Upper  topsail.  The  third  square  sail  from  the  deck  on 
the  masts  of  square-rigged  ships. 

Yards .  The  steel  or  wooden  spars  (placed  across  masts) 
from  which  square  sails  are  set. 


BIOGRAPHY 


WHEN  I  am  buried,  all  my  thoughts  and  acts 
Will  be  reduced  to  lists  of  dates  and  facts, 
And   long    before  this    wandering    flesh    is 

rotten 

The  dates  which  made  me  will  be  all  for- 
gotten ; 
And  none  will  know  the  gleam  there  used 

to  be 

About  the  feast  days  freshly  kept  by  me, 
But  men  will  call  the  golden  hour  of  bliss 
" About  this  time,"  or  " shortly  after  this." 

Men  do  not  heed  the  rungs  by  which  men 

cHmb___- 
Those  glittering  steps,  those  milestones  upon 

Tune, 

165 


166  BIOGRAPHY 

Those    tombstones    of    dead    selves,    those 

hours  of  birth, 
(^Those  moments  of  the  soul  in  years  of  earthy 

They  mark  the  height__achieved,  the  main 

- 

result, 

The  power  of  freedom  in  the  perished  cult, 
The  power  of  boredom  in  the  dead  man's 

deeds, 
Notjbhe  bright  moments  of  the  sprinkled 

seeds. 

By  many  waters  and  on  many  ways 

I  have  known  golden  instants  and  bright 

days; 

The  day  on  which,  beneath  an  arching  sail, 
I  saw  the  Cordilleras  and  gave  hail; 
The  summer  day  on  which  in  heart's  delight 
I  saw  the  Swansea  Mumbles  bursting  white, 
The  glittering  day  when  all  the  waves  wore 

flags 


BIOGRAPHY  167 

And  the  ship  Wanderer  came  with  sails  in 

rags  ; 

That  curlew-calling  time  in  Irish  dusk 
When  life  became  more  splendid  than  its 

husk, 

When  the  rent  chapel  on  the  brae  at  Slains 
Shone    with    a    doorway    opening    beyond 

brains ; 

The  dawn  when,  with  a  brace-block's  creak- 
ing cry, 

Out  of  the  mist  a  little  barque  slipped  by, 
Spilling  the  mist  with  changing  gleams  of 

red, 
Then  gone,  with  one  raised  hand  and  one 

turned  head; 
The  howling  evening  when  the  spindrift's 

mists 

Broke  to  display  the  four  Evangelists, 
Snow-capped,    divinely    granite,    lashed    by 

breakers, 


168  BIOGRAPHY 

Wind-beaten    bones    of    long    since    buried 

acres ; 

The  night  alone  near  water  when  I  heard 
All  the  sea's  spirit  spoken  by  a  bird; 
The  English  dusk  when  I  beheld  once  more 
(With  eyes  so  changed)  the  ship,  the  citied 

shore, 
The  lines  of  masts,  the  streets  so  cheerly 

trod 
(In  happier  seasons)    and   gave   thanks  to 

God. 
All  had  then-  beauty,  their  bright  moments' 

gift, 
Then*    something    caught   from    Tune,    the 

ever-swift. 

All  of  those  gleams  were  golden;   but  life's 

hands 
Have  given  more  constant  gifts  in  changing 

lands, 


BIOGRAPHY  169 

And  when  I  count  those  gifts,  I  think  them 

such 
As  no  man's  bounty  could  have  bettered 

much: 
The  gift   of    country    life,    near    hills   and — 

woods 

Where  happy  waters  sing  in  solitudes, 
The  gift  of  being  near  ships,  of  seeing  each 

day 
A    city   of    ships  with    great    ships    under 

weigh, 
The  great   street  paved  with  water,   filled 

with  shipping, 
And  all  the  world's  flags  flying  and  seagulls 

dipping. 

Yet  when  I  am  dust  my  penman  may  not 

know 
Those   water-trampling   ships    which   made 

me  glow, 


170  BIOGRAPHY 

But    think    my   wonder    mad   and   fail    to 
find 

Their  glory,  even  dimly,  from  my  mind, 

And  yet  they  made  me: 

not  alone  the  ships 

But  men  hard-palmed  from  tallying-on  to 
whips, 

The    two    close    friends    of    nearly    twenty 
years, 

Sea-followers   both,    sea-wrestlers   and   sea- 
peers, 

Whose  feet  with  mine  wore  many  a  bolt- 
head  bright 

Treading  the  decks  beneath  the  riding  light. 

Yet  death  will  make  that  warmth  of  friend- 
ship cold 

And  who'll  know  what  one  said  and  what 
one  told 

Our    hearts'    communion    and    the    broken 
spells 


BIOGRAPHY  171 

When  the  loud  call  blew  at  the  strike  of 

bells? 

No  one,  I  know,  yet  let  me  be  believed  \ 
A  soul  entirely  known  is  life  achieved,/ 

Years  blank  with  hardship  never  speak  a 

word 

Live  in  the  soul  to  make  the  being  stirred, 
Towns  can  be  prisons  where  the  spirit  dulls 
Away  from  mates  and  ocean-wandering  hulls, 
Away  from  all  bright  water  and  great  hills 
And  sheep-walks  where  the  curlews  cry  their 

fills, 
Away  in  towns,  where  eyes  have  nought  to 

see 

But  dead  museums  and  miles  of  misery 
And  floating  life  unrooted  from  man's  need 
And    miles    of   fisn-hobks    baited   to    catch 

greed 
And  life  made  wretched  out  of  human  ken 


172  BIOGRAPHY 

And  miles  of  shopping  women  served  by  men. 
So,  if  the  penman  sums  my  London  days 
Let  him  but  say  that  there  were  holy  ways, 
Dull  Bloomsbury  streets  of  dull  brick  man- 
sions old 
With  stinking  doors  where  women  stood  to 

scold 
And  drunken  waits  at  Christmas  with  their 

horn 
Droning  the  news,  in  snow,  that  Christ  was 

born; 
And  windy  gas   lamps  and  the  wet  roads 

shining 

And  that  old  carol  of  the  midnight  whining, 
And  that  old  room  (above  the  noisy  slum) 
Where   there  was  wine   and   fire  and   talk 

with  some 

Under  strange  pictures  of  the  wakened  soul 
To  whom  this  earth  was  but  a  burnt-out 

coal. 


BIOGRAPHY  173 

O  Tune,  bring  back  those  midnights  and 
those  friends, 

Those  glittering  moments  that  a  spirit  lends 

That  all  may  be  imagined  from  the  flash 

The  cloud-hid  god-game  through  the  light- 
ning gash 

Those  hours  of  stricken  sparks  from  which 
men  took 

Light  to  send  out  to  men  in  song  or 
book. 

Those  friends  who  heard  St.  Pancras'  bells 
strike  two 

Yet  stayed  until  the  barber's  cockerel  crew. 

Talking   of   noble   styles,    the   Frenchman's  \ 

/J*? 

best, 

The  thought    beyond  great  poets    not  ex-/1 

pressed, 
The   glory   of   mood   where   human   frailty 

failed, 
The  forts  of  human  light  not  yet  assailed, 


174  BIOGRAPHY 

Till  the  dim  room  had  mind  and  seemed  to 

brood 

Binding  our  wills  to  mental  brotherhood, 
Till  we  became  a  college,  and  each  night 
Was  discipline  and  manhood  and  delight, 
Till  our  farewells  and  winding  down  the 

stairs 
At  each  grey  dawn  had  meaning  that  Time 

spares, 
That  we,  so  linked,  should  roam  the  whole 

world  round 
Teaching  the  ways  our  brooding  minds  had 

found 
Making  that  room  our  Chapter,   our  one 

mind 
Where  all  that  this  world  soiled  should  be 

refined. 

i 

Often  at  night  I  tread  those  streets  again 
And  see  the  alley  glimmering  in  the  rain, 


BIOGRAPHY  175 

Yet  now  I  miss  that  sign  of  earlier  tramps 
A  house  with  shadows  of  plane-boughs  under 

lamps, 

The  secret  house  where  once  a  beggar  stood 
Trembling  and  blind  to  show  his  woe  for 

food. 
And  now  I  miss  that  friend  who  used  to 

walk 
Home   to   my  lodgings   with  me,   deep   in 

talk, 
Wearing    the    last    of    night    out    in    still 

streets 
Trodden    by   us    and    policemen    on    then1 

beats 

And  cats,  but  else  deserted ;   now  I  miss 
That  lively  mind  and  guttural  laugh  of  his 
And  that  strange  way  he  had  of  making 

gleam, 
Like   something   real,   the   art  we  used   to 

dream. 


176  BIOGRAPHY 

London  has  been  my  prison ;   but  my  books 
Kills  and  great  waters,  labouring  men   and 

brooks, 
Ships  and  deep  friendships  and  remembered 

days 

Which  even  now  set  all  my  mind  ablaze 
that  June  day  when,  in  the  red  bricks' 

chinks 
I    saw    the    old   Roman   ruins   white   with 

pinks 

And  felt  the  hillside  haunted  even  then 
By  not  dead  memory  of  the  Roman  men. 
And  felt  the  hillside  thronged  by  souls  un- 
seen 

Who  knew  the  interest  in  me  and  were  keen 
That    man    alive    should    understand    man 

dead 

So  many  centuries  since  the  blood  was  shed. 
And  quickened  with  strange  hush  because 

this  comer 


BIOGRAPHY  177 

Sensed    a    strange    soul    alive    behind    the 

summer. 

That  other  day  on  Ercall  when  the  stones 
Were  sunbleached  white,  like  long  unburied 

bones, 
While  the  bees  droned  and  all  the  air  was 

sweet 

From  honey  buried  underneath  my  feet, 
Honey  of  purple  heather  and  white  clover 
Sealed   in   its   gummy   bags    till   summer's 

over. 

Then  other  days  by  water,  by  bright  sea, 
Clear  as  clean  glass  and  my  bright  friend 

with  me, 
The  cove  clean  bottomed  where  we  saw  the 

brown 
Red   spotted   plaice   go   skimming   six   feet 

down 
And    saw   the    long   fronds   waving,   white 

with  shells, 


178  BIOGRAPHY 

Waving,  unfolding,  drooping,  to  the  swells; 
That  sadder  day  when  we  beheld  the  great 
And  terrible  beauty  of  a  Lammas  spate 
Roaring    white-mouthed    in    all    the    great 

cliff's  gaps 

Headlong,  tree-tumbling  fury  of  collapse, 
While  drenching  clouds  drove  by  and  every 

sense 

Was  water  roaring  or  rushing  or  in  offence, 
And    mountain    sheep    stood    huddled    and 

blown  gaps  gleamed 
Where   torn   white  hair   of   torrents   shook 

and  streamed. 

That  sadder  day  when  we  beheld  again 
A  spate  going  down  in  sunshine  after  rain, 
When    the    blue    reach    of    water    leaping 

bright 
Was   one   long  ripple   and   clatter,   flecked 

with  white. 
And  that  far  day,  that  never  blotted  page 


BIOGRAPHY  179 

When  youth  was  bright  like  flowers  about 

old  age 

Fair  generations  bringing  thanks  for  life 
To  that  old  kindly  man  and  trembling  wife 
After  their  sixty  years :   Time  never  made 
A  better  beauty  since  the  Earth  was  laid 
Than  that  thanksgiving  given  to  grey  hair 
For   the   great   gift   of   life   which   brought 

them  there. 

Days  of  endeavour  have  been  good:    the 

days 

Racing  in  cutters  for  the  comrade's  praise, 
The  day  they  led  my  cutter  at  the  turn 
Yet  could  not  keep  the  lead  and  dropped 

astern, 
The  moment  in  the  spurt  when  both  boats' 

oars 
Dipped  in  each  other's  wash  and  throats 

grew  hoarse 


180  .  BIOGRAPHY 

And  teeth  ground  into  teeth  and  both 
strokes  quickened 

Lashing  the  sea,  and  gasps  came,  and  hearts 
sickened 

And  coxswains  damned  us,  dancing,  banking 
stroke, 

To  put  our  weights  on,  though  our  hearts 
were  broke 

And  both  boats  seemed  to  stick  and  sea 
seemed  glue, 

The  tide  a  mill  race  we  were  struggling 
through 

And  every  quick  recover  gave  us  squints 

Of  them  still  there,  and  oar  tossed  water- 
glints 

And  cheering  came,  our  friends,  our  foemen 
cheering, 

A  long,  wild,  rallying  murmur  on  the  hear- 
ing— 

"Port  Fore!"  and  "Starboard  Fore!" 
"Port  Fore."  "Port  Fore." 


BIOGRAPHY  181 

"Up  with  her,  Starboard,"  and  at  that  each 

oar 
Lightened,  though  arms  were  bursting,  and 

eyes  shut 

And  the  oak  stretchers  grunted  in  the  strut 
And  the  curse  quickened  from  the  cox,  our 

bows 
Crashed,  and  drove  talking  water,  we  made 

vows 

Chastity  vows  and  temperance ;  in  our  pain 
We  numbered  things  we'd  never  eat  again 
If  we  could  only  win ;   then  came  the  yell 
"Starboard,"    "Port    Fore,"    and    then    a 

beaten  bell 
Rung    as    for    fire    to    cheer    us.     "Now." 

Oars  bent 
Soul  took  the  looms  now  body's  bolt  was 

spent, 
"Damn   it,    come   on   now,"    "On   now," 

"On  now,"  "Starboard." 


182  BIOGRAPHY 

"Port  Fore."     "Up  with  her,  Port";   each 

cutter  harboured 
Ten  eye-shut  painsick  strugglers,   "Heave, 

oh,  heave," 
Catcalls    waked    echoes    like    a    shrieking 

sheave. 
"Heave,"    and   I    saw  a  back,   then    two. 

"Port  Fore." 

"Starboard."    "Come  on."    I  saw  the  mid- 
ship oar 

And  knew  we  had  done  them.    "Port  Fore." 
"Starboard."    "Now." 
I  saw  bright  water  spurting  at  their  bow 
Their  cox'  full  face  an  instant.    They  were 

done. 
The  watchers'  cheering  almost  drowned  the 

gun. 
We  had  hardly  strength  to  toss  our  oars; 

our  cry 
Cheering  the  losing  cutter  was  a  sigh. 


BIOGRAPHY  183 

Other  bright   days  of  action  have  seemed 

great : 

Wild  days  in  a  pampero  off  the  Plate; 
Good  swimming  days,  at  Hog  Back  or  the 

Coves 
Which   the  young  gannet   and   the   corbie 

loves ; 
Surf-swimming    between    rollers,     catching 

breath 
Between  the  advancing  grave  and  breaking 

death, 

Then  shooting  up  into  the  sunbright  smooth 
To  watch  the  advancing  roller  bare  her  tooth, 
And  days  of  labour  also,  loading,  hauling ; 
Long  days  at  winch   or  capstan,   heaving, 

pawling ; 
The  days  with  oxen,  dragging  stone  from 

blasting, 
And    dusty   days   in   mills,    and   hot   days 

masting. 


184  BIOGRAPHY 

Trucking  on  dust-dry  deckings  smooth  like 

ice, 

And  hunts  in  mighty  wool-racks  after  mice ; 
Mornings  with  buckwheat  when  the  fields 

did  blanch 
With  White  Leghorns  come  from  the  chicken 

ranch. 

Days  near  the  spring  upon  the  sunburnt  hill, 
Plying  the  maul  or  gripping  tight  the  drill. 
Delights  of  work  most  real,  delights  that 

change 
The    headache    life    of    towns    to    rapture 

strange 
Not   known   by   townsmen,    nor   imagined ; 

health 

That  puts  new  glory  upon  mental  wealth 
And  makes  the  poor  man  rich. 

But  that  ends,  too, 
Health  with  its  thoughts  of  life;    and  that 

bright  view 


BIOGRAPHY  185 

That  sunny  landscape  from  life's  peak,  that 

glory, 
And  all  a  glad  man's  comments  on  life's 

story 

And  thoughts  of  marvellous  towns  and  liv- 
ing men 

And  what  pens  tell  and  all  beyond  the  pen 
End,   and  are  summed  in  words  so   truly 

dead 

They  raise  no  image  of  the  heart  and  head, 
The  life,  the  man  alive,  the  friend  we  knew, 
The  mind  ours  argued  with  or  listened  to, 
None ;  but  are  dead,  and  all  life's  keenness, 

all, 

Is  dead  as  print  before  the  funeral, 
Even    deader    after,    when    the    dates    are 

sought, 
And    cold   minds    disagree   with   what   we 

thought. 
This  many  pictured  world  of  many  passions 


186  BIOGRAPHY 

Wears  out  the  nations  as  a  woman  fashions, 

^^— • » — • 

id  what  life  is  is  much  to  very  few, 

Men  being  so  strange,  so  mad,  and  what 

men  do 
So  good  to  watch  or  share;   but  when  men 

count 
Those  hours  of  life  that  were  a  bursting 

fount, 
Sparkling    the    dusty    heart    with    living 

springs, 
There  seems  a  world,  beyond  our  earthly 

things, 
Gated    by    golden    moments,    each    bright 

time 

Opening  to  show  the  city  white  like  lime, 
JHigh    towered    and    many    peopled.     This 

made  sure, 
Work  that  obscures  those  moments  seems 

impure, 
Making  our  not-returning  time  of  breath 


BIOGRAPHY  18? 

Dull  with  the  ritual  and  records  of  death, 
That  frost   of  fact  by  which   our  wisdom 

gives 
Correctly  stated  death  to  all  that  lives. 

Best  trust  the  happy  moments.    What  they 

gave 

Makes  man  less  fearful  of  the  certain  grave, 
And   gives  his  work   compassion   and  new 

eyes. 
The  days  that  make  us  happy  make  us  wise. 


SHIPS 


"        *  ^  '  -  '  -  / 

I  CANNOT  tell  their  wonder  nor  make  known  & 
Magic  that  once  thrilled  through  me  to  the 

bone,    °" 
But  all  men  praise  some  beauty,  tell  some 

tale,  \» 
Vent  a  high  mood  which  makes  the  rest 

seem  pale, 
Pour    their    heart's    blood    to    flourish    one 

green  leaf,^ 

Follow  some  Helen  for  her  gift  of  grief^ 
And  fail  in  what  they  mean,  whate'er  they 

do:§. 
You  should  have  seen,  man  cannot  tell  to 

you  IK 

The  beauty  of  the  ships  of  that  my  city. 
188 


SHIPS  189 

That  beauty  now  is  spoiled  by  the  sea's  pity  ; 
For  one  may  haunt   the  pier   a  score  of 

times, 
Hearing    St.    Nicholas   bells   ring   out    the 

chimes, 
Yet  never  see  those  proud   ones   swaying 

home 
With  mainyards  backed  and  bows  a  cream 

of  foam, 

Those  bows  so  lovely-curving,  cut  so  fine, 
Those  coulters  of  the  many-bubbled  brine, 
As  once,  long  since,  when  all  the  docks  were 

filled 
With  that  sea-beauty  man  has  ceased  to 

build. 

Yet,    though    their    splendour    may    have 

ceased  to  be, 
Each  played  her  sovereign  part  in  making 

me: 


190  SHIPS 

Now  I  return  my  thanks  with  heart  and 
lips 

For  the  great  queenliness  of  all  those  ships. 

—— • ' 

And  first  the  first  bright  memory,  still  so 

clear, 

An  autumn  evening  in  a  golden  year, 
When  in  the  last  lit  moments  before  dark 
The  Chepica,  a  steel-grey  lovely  barque, 
Came  to  an  anchor  near  us  on  the  flood, 
Her  trucks  aloft  in  sun-glow  red  as  blood. 

Then  come  so  many  ships  that  I  could 
fill 

Three  docks  with  their  fair  hulls  remem- 
bered still, 

Each  with  her  special  memory's  special 
grace, 

Riding  the  sea,  making  the  waves  give 
place 


SHIPS  191 

I 

To     delicate     high     beauty;      man's     best 

strength, 

Noble  in  every  line  in  all  their  length. 
Ailsa,  Genista,  ships,  with  long  jibbooms, 

The  Wanderer  with  great  beauty  and  strange 

y, 
dooms, 

Liverpool  (mightiest  then)_j3uperb,  sublime/ 
The  California  huge,  as  slow  as  time. 
The  Copley  swift,  the  perfect  J.  T.  North, 
The  loveliest  barque  my  city  has  sent  forth, 
Dainty  John  Lockett  well  remembered  yet, 
The  splendid  Argus  with  her  skysail  set, 
Stalwart   Drumcliff,  white-blocked,  majestic 

Sierras, 
Divine  bright  ships,  the  water's  standard- 

bearers ; 

Melpomene,  Euphrosyne,  and  their  sweet 
Sea-troubling  sisters  of  the  Fernie  fleet  ; 
Corunna  (in  whom  my  friend  died)  and  the 

old 


192  SHIPS 

Long    since    loved    Esmeralda    long    since 

sold. 

Centurion  passed  in  Rio,  Glaucus  spoken, 
Aladdin  burnt,  the  Bi^ston  water-broken, 
Yola,  in  whom  my  friend  sailed,  Dawpool 

trim, 

Fierce-bowed  Egeria  plunging  to  the  swim, 
Stanmore   wide-sterned,    sweet    Cupica,    tall 

Bard, 
Queen  in  all  harbours  with   her  moon  sail 

yard. 

Though  I  tell  many,  there  must  still  be 
others, 

McVickar  Marshall's  ships  and  Fernie 
Brothers', 

Lochs,  Counties,  Shires,  Drums,  the  count- 
less lines 

Whose  house-flags  all  were  once  familiar 
signs 


SHIPS  193 

At    high    main-trucks    on    Mersey's    windy 

~j 
ways  *  / 

When  sunlight  made  the  wind-white  water 

blaze. 
Their  names  bring  back  old  mornings,  when 

the  docks 
Shone    with    their    house-flags    and    their 

painted  blocks, 
Their    raking    masts    below    the    Custom 

House 
And    all    the   marvellous    beauty    of   their 

bows. 

Familiar  steamers,  too,  majestic  steamers, 
Shearing  Atlantic  roller-tops  to  streamers, 
Umbria,  Etruria,  noble,  still  at  sea, 
The  grandest,  then,  that  man  had  brought 

to  be. 

Majestic,  City  of  Paris,  City  of  Rome, 
Forever  jealous  racers,  out  and  home. 


194  SHIPS 

The  Alfred  HoWs  blue  smoke-stacks  down 

the  stream, 

The  fair  Loanda  with  her  bows  a-cream. 
Booth  liners,  Anchor  liners,  Red  Star  liners, 
The   marks   and   styles   of    countless   ship- 
designers, 

The  Magdalena,  Puno,  Potosi, 
Lost  Cotopaxi,  all  well  known  to  me. 

These  splendid  ships,  each  with  her  grace, 

her  glory, 

Her  memory  of  old  song  or  comrade's  story, 
Still  in  my  mind  the  image  of  life's  need, 
Beauty  in  hardest  action,  beauty  indeed. 
"They  built  great  ships  and  sailed  them" 

sounds  most  brave 

Whatever  arts  we  have  or  fail  to  have; 
I  touch  my  country's  mind,  I  come  to  grips 
With   half  her  purpose,    thinking   of   these 

ships 


SHIPS  195 

That  art  untouched  by  softness,  all  that 

line 
Drawn  ringing  hard  to  stand  the  test  of 

brine, 
That    nobleness    and    grandeur,    all    that 

beauty 

t^ 
Born  of  a  manly  life  and  bitter  duty, 

That   splendour    of    fine   bows   which    yet 

could  stand 

The  shock  of  rollers  never  checked  by  land. 
That  art  of  masts,  sail  crowded,  fit  to  break, 
Yet  stayed  to  strength  and  backstayed 

into  rake, 

The  life  demanded  by  that  art,  the  keen 
Eye-puckered,     hard-case     seamen,     silent, 

lean,  — 
They  are  grander  things  than  all  the  art  of 

towns, 
Their  tests  are  tempests  and  the  sea  that 

drowns, 


196  SHIPS 

They  are  my  country's  line,  her  great  art 

done 
By  strong  brains  labouring  on  the  thought 

unwon, 

j  They  mark  our  passage  as  a  race  of  men, 
{  Earth  will  not  see  such  ships  as  those  again. 


TRUTH 

MAN  with  his  burning  soul    & 
Has  but  an  hour  of  breath    fa 
To  build  a  ship  of  Truth 
In  which  his  soul  may  sail,   (i 
Sail  on  the  sea  of  death. 
For  death  takes  toll 
Of  beauty,  courage,  youth, 
Of  all  but  Truth. 

Life's  city  ways  are  dark, 
Men  mutter  by;  the  wells 
Of  the  great  waters  moan. 
O  death,  0  sea,  0  tide, 
The  waters  moan  like  bells. 
No  light,  no  mark, 
The  soul  goes  out  alone 
On  seas  unknown. 

197 


198  TRUTH 

t 

Stripped  of  all  purple  robes, 

Stripped  of  all  golden  lies, 

I  will  not  be  afraid. 

Truth  will  preserve  through  death; 

Perhaps  the  stars  will  rise, 

The  stars  like  globes. 

The  ship  my  striving  made 

May  see  night  fade. 


THEY  CLOSED  HER  EYES 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  DON  GUSTAVO 
A.  BECQUER. 

THEY  closed  her  eyes, 
They  were  still  open; 
They  hid  her  face 
With  a  white  linen, 
And,  some  sobbing, 
Others  in  silence, 
From  the  sad  bedroom 
All  came  away. 

The  night-light  in  a  dish 
Burned  on  the  floor, 
It  flung  on  the  wall 
The  bed's  shadow, 

199 


200  THEY  CLOSED  HER  EYES 

And  in  that  shadow 
One  saw  sometimes 
Drawn  in  sharp  line 
The  body's  shape. 

The  day  awakened 
At  its  first  whiteness 
With  its  thousand  noises; 
The  town  awoke 
Before  that  contrast 
Of  life  and  strangeness, 
Of  light  and  darkness. 
I  thought  a  moment 

My  God,  how  lonely 

The  dead  are! 

From  the  house,  shoulder-high 
To  church  they  bore  her, 
And  in  a  chapel 
They  left  her  bier. 


THEY  CLOSED  HER  EYES  201 

There  they  surrounded 
Her  pale  body 
With  yellow  candles 
And  black  stuffs. 

farffi^*' 
At  the  last  stroke 

Of  the  ringing  for  the  souls 

An  old  crone  finished 

Her  last  prayers. 

She  crossed  the  narrow  nave; 

The  doors  moaned, 

And  the  holy  place 

Remained  deserted. 

From  a  clock  one  heard 
The  measured  ticking, 
And  from  some  candles 
The  guttering. 
All  things  there 
Were  so  grim  and  sad, 


202  THEY  CLOSED  HER  EYES 

So  dark  and  rigid, 

That  I  thought  a  moment, 

My  God,  how  lonely 

The  dead  are! 

From  the  high  belfry 
The  tongue  of  iron 
Clanged,  giving  out 
His  sad  farewell. 
Crape  on  their  clothes, 
Her  friends  and  kindred 
Passed  in  a  row, 
Making  procession. 

In  the  last  vault, 

Dark  and  narrow, 

The  pickaxe  opened 

A  niche  at  one  end; 

There  they  laid  her  down. 

Soon  they  bricked  the  place  up, 


THEY  CLOSED  HER  EYES  203 

And  with  a  gesture 
Bade  grief  farewell. 

Pickaxe  on  shoulder 
The  grave-digger, 
Singing  between  his  teeth, 
Passed  out  of  sight. 
The  night  came  down; 
It  was  all  silent, 
Lost  in  the  shadows 
I  thought  a  moment. 

My  God,  how  lonely 

The  dead  are! 

In  the  long  nights 
Of  bitter  whiter, 
When  the  wind  makes 
The  rafters  creak, 
When  the  violent  rain 
Lashes  the  windows, 
Lonely,  I  remember 
That  poor  girl. 


204  THEY  CLOSED  HER  EYES 

There  falls  the  rain 
With  its  noise  eternal. 
There  the  north  wind 
Fights  with  the  rain. 
Stretched  in  the  hollow 
Of  the  damp  bricks 
Perhaps  her  bones 
Freeze  with  the  cold. 

Does  the  dust  return  to  dust? 

Does  the  soul  fly  to  heaven? 

Is  all  vile  matter, 

Rottenness,  filthiness? 

I  know  not.     But 

There  is  something  —  something 

That  I  cannot  explain, 

Something  that  gives  us 

Loathing,  terror, 

To  leave  the  dead 

So  alone,  so  wretched. 


THE  HARP 

PROM    THE    SPANISH    OF    DON    GUSTAVO 
A.    BECQUER 

IN  a  dark  corner  of  the  room, 
Perhaps  forgotten  by  its  owner, 
Silent  and  dim  with  dust, 
I  saw  the  harp. 

How  many  musics  slumbered  in  its  strings, 
As  the  bird  sleeps  in  the  branches, 
Waiting  the  snowy  hand 
That  could  awaken  them. 

i 
Ah  me,  I  thought,  how  many,  many  times 

Genius  thus  slumbers  in  a  human  soul, 
Waiting,  as  Lazarus  waited,  for  a  voice 
To  bid  him  "Rise  and  walk." 

205 


SONNET 

FROM    THE    SPANISH    OF    DON    FRANCISCO    DE 
QUEVEDO 

I  SAW  the  ramparts  of  my  native  land, 
One  time  so  strong,  now  dropping  in  decay, 
Their  strength  destroyed  by  this  new  age's 

way 
That  has  worn  out  and  rotted  what  was 

grand. 

I  went  into  the  fields :   there  I  could  see 
The  sun  drink  up  the  waters  newly  thawed, 
And  on  the  hills  the  moaning  cattle  pawed ; 
Their  miseries  robbed  the  day  of  light  for 

me. 

I  went  into  my  house :    I  saw  how  spotted, 
Decaying  things  made  that  old  home  their 

prize. 

206 


SONNET  207 

My    withered    walking-staff   had    come   to 

bend; 
I  felt  the  age  had  won;    my  sword  was 

rotted, 
And  there  was  nothing  on  which  I  set  my 

eyes 
That  was  not  a  reminder  of  the  end. 


SONNET    ON    THE    DEATH    OF    HIS 
WIFE 

FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE  OF  ANTONIO  DE 
FERREIRO 

THAT  blessed  sunlight  that  once  showed  to 

me 

My  way  to  heaven  more  plain  more  cer- 
tainly, 

And  with  her  bright  beam  banished  utterly 
All  trace  of  mortal  sorrow  far  from  me, 
Has  gone  from  me,  has  left  her  prison  sad, 
And  I  am  blind  and  alone  and  gone  astray, 
Like  a  lost  pilgrim  in  a  desert  way 
Wanting  the  blessed  guide  that  once  he  had. 

Thus  with  a  spirit  bowed  and  mind  a  blur 


SONNET  ON   THE  DEATH  OF  HIS   WIFE       209 

By  valleys  and  by  meadows  and  by  moun- 
tains, 

And  everywhere  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  her. 

She  takes  me  by  the  hand  and  leads  me  on, 

And  my  eyes  follow  her,  my  eyes  made 
fountains. 


SONG 

ONE  sunny  time  in  May 
When  lambs  were  sporting, 
The  sap  ran  in  the  spray 
And  I  went  courting, 
And  all  the  apple  boughs 
Were  bright  with  blossom, 
I  picked  an  early  rose 
For  my  love's  bosom. 

And  then  I  met  her  friend, 

Down  by  the  water, 

Who  cried  "She's  met  her  end, 

That  gray-eyed  daughter; 

That  voice  of  hers  is  stilled 

Her  beauty  broken." 

0  me,  my  love  is  killed, 

My  love  unspoken. 
210 


SONG  211 

She  was  too  sweet,  too  dear, 

To  die  so  cruel, 

O  Death,  why  leave  me  here 

And  take  my  jewel? 

Her  voice  went  to  the  bone, 

So  true,  so  ringing, 

And  now  I  go  alone, 

Winter  or  springing. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SIR  BORS 

WOULD  I  could  win  some  quiet  and  rest,  and 
a  little  ease, 

In  the  cool  grey  hush  of  the  dusk,  in  the 
dim  green  place  of  the  trees, 

Where  the  birds  are  singing,  singing,  sing- 
ing, crying  aloud 

The  song  of  the  red,  red  rose  that  blossoms 
beyond  the  seas. 

Would  I  could  see  it,  the  rose,  when  the 
light  begins  to  fail, 

And  a  lone  white  star  in  the  West  is  glim- 
mering on  the  mail; 

The  red,  red  passionate  rose  of  the  sacred 
blood  of  the  Christ, 

In  the  shining  chalice  of  God,  the  cup  of 
the  Holy  Grail. 

212 


THE  BALLAD   OF  SIR  BOBS  213 

The  dusk  comes  gathering  grey,   and  the 

darkness  dims  the  West, 
The  oxen  low  to  the  byre,  and  all  bells  ring 

to  rest ; 
But  I  ride  over  the  moors,  for  the  dusk  still 

bides  and  waits, 
That  brims  my  soul  with  the  glow  of  the 

rose  that  ends  the  Quest. 

My  horse  is  spavined  and  ribbed,  and  his 

bones  come  through  his  hide, 
My  sword  is  rotten  with  rust,  but  I  shake 

the  reins  and  ride, 
For  the  bright  white  birds  of  God  that  nest 

in  the  rose  have  called, 
And  never  a  township  now  is  a  town  where 

I  can  bide. 

It  will  happen  at  last,  at  dusk,  as  my  horse 
limps  down  the  fell, 


214  THE  BALLAD  OF  SIR  BOBS 

A  star  will  glow  like  a  note  God  strikes  on  a 

silver  bell, 
And   the   bright   white   birds   of   God   will 

carry  my  soul  to  Christ, 
And  the  sight  of  the  Rose,  the  Rose,  will 

pay  for  the  years  of  hell. 


V 

SPANISH  WATERS 

SPANISH  waters,  Spanish  waters,  you  are 
ringing  in  my  ears, 

Like  a  slow  sweet  piece  of  music  from  the 
grey  forgotten  years; 

Telling  tales,  and  beating  tunes,  and  bring- 
ing weary  thoughts  to  me 

Of  the  sandy  beach  at  Muertos,  where  I 
would  that  I  could  be. 

There's  a  surf  breaks  on  Los  Muertos,  and    Y 

it  never  stops  to  roar, 
And  it's  there  we  came  to  anchor,  and  it's 

there  we  went  ashore, 
Where  the  blue  lagoon  is  silent  amid  snags 

of  rotting  trees, 
Dropping  like  the  clothes  of  corpses  cast  up 

by  the  seas. 

215 


216  SPANISH    WATERS 

We  anchored  at  Los  Muertos  when  the  dip- 
ping sun  was  red, 

We  left  her  half-a-mile  to  sea,  to  west  of 
Nigger  Head; 

And  before  the  mist  was  on  the  Cay,  before 
the  day  was  done, 

We  were  all  ashore  on  Muertos  with  the 
gold  that  we  had  won. 

We  bore  it  through  the  marshes  in  a  half- 
score  battered  chests, 

Sinking,  in  the  sucking  quagmires,  to  the 
sunburn  on  our  breasts, 

Heaving  over  tree-trunks,  gasping,  damning 
at  the  flies  and  heat, 

Longing  for  a  long  drink,  out  of  silver,  in 
the  ship's  cool  lazareet. 

The  moon  came  white  and  ghostly  as  we 
laid  the  treasure  down, 


SPANISH  WATERS  217 

There  was  gear  there' d  make  a  beggarman 

as  rich  as  Lima  Town, 
Copper  charms  and  silver  trinkets  from  the 

chests  of  Spanish  crews, 
Gold  doubloons  and  double  moydores,  louis 

d'ors  and  portagues, 

Clumsy    yellow-metal    earrings    from    the          / 

Indians  of  Brazil,  lr 

Uncut  emeralds  out  of  Rio,  bezoar  stones 

from  Guayaquil; 
Silver,  in  the  crude  and  fashioned,  pots  of 

old  Arica  bronze, 
Jewels  from  the  bones  of  Incas  desecrated 

by  the  Dons. 

We  smoothed  the  place  with  mattocks,  and 

we  took  and  blazed  the  tree, 
Which  marks  yon  where  the  gear  is  hid  that 

none  will  ever  see, 


218  SPANISH   WATERS 

And   we   laid   aboard   the   ship   again,   and 

south  away  we  steers, 
Through    the    loud    surf    of    Los    Muertos 

which  is  beating  in  my  ears. 

I'm  the  last  alive  that  knows  it.    All  the 

rest  have  gone  their  ways 
Killed,  or  died,  or  come  to  anchor  in  the  old 

Mulatas  Cays, 
And  I  go  singing,  fiddling,  old  and  starved 

and  in  despair, 
And  I  know  where  all  that  gold  is  hid,  if  I 

were  only  there. 

It's  not  the  way  to  end  it  all.    I'm  old, 

and  nearly  blind, 
And  an  old  man's  past's  a  strange  thing, 

for  it  never  leaves  his  mind. 
And  I  see  in  dreams,  awhiles,   the  beach, 

the  sun's  disc  dipping  red, 


SPANISH   WATERS  219 

And  the  tall  ship,  under  topsails,  swaying 
in  past  Nigger  Head. 

I'd  be  glad  to  step  ashore  there.    Glad  to 

take  a  pick  and  go 
To  the  lone  blazed  coco-palm  tree  in  the 

place  no  others  know, 
And    lift    the    gold   and   silver    that    has 

mouldered  there  for  years 
By  the  loud  surf  of  Los  Muertos  which  is 

beating  in  my  ears. 


J 


CARGOES 


QUINQUIREME     of    Nineveh    from    distant 


Ophir, 

/      c        /  <    w     I       /     *s    I     _  ) 

Rowing  home  to  haven  in  sunny  Palestine, 

With  a  cargo  of  ivory, 
And  apes  and  peacocks, 
Sandalwood,    cedarwood,    and   sweet   white 
wine. 

Stately   Spanish   galleon   coming   from   the 

Isthmus, 
Dipping  through  the  Tropics  by  the  palm- 

green  shores, 

With  a  cargo  of  diamonds, 
Emeralds,  amethysts, 
Topazes,  and  cinnamon,  and  gold  moidores. 

220 


CARGOES  221 

Dirty    British    coaster    with    a  salt-caked 

smoke  stack, 
Butting  through  the    Channel  in  the  mad 

March  days, 

With  a  cargo  of  Tyne  coal, 
Road-rails,  pig-lead, 
Firewood,  iron-ware,  and  cheap  tin  trays. 


CAPTAIN    STRATTON'S    FANCY 

OH  some  are  fond  of  red  wine,  and  some  are 

fond  of  white, 
And  some  are  all  for  dancing  by  the  pale 

moonlight  ; 
But  rum  alone's  the  tipple,  and  the  heart's 

delight 
Of  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh   some   are   fond   of   Spanish   wine,   and 

some  are  fond  of  French, 
And  somell  swallow  tay  and  stuff  fit  only 

for  a  wench; 
But  I'm  for  right  Jamaica  till  I  roll  beneath 

the  bench, 

Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 
222 


CAPTAIN  STRATTON'S  FANCY       223 

Oh  some  are  for  the  lily,  and  some  are  for 

the  rose, 
But  I  am  for  the  sugar-cane  that  in  Jamaica 

grows ; 
For  it's  that  that  makes  the  bonny  drink  to 

warm  my  copper  nose, 
Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh  some  are  fond  of  fiddles,  and  a  song 

well  sung, 
And  some  are  all  for  music  for  to  lilt  upon 

the  tongue; 
But  mouths  were  made  for  tankards,  and 

for  sucking  at  the  bung, 
Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

.  / 
Oh  some  are  fond  of  dancing,  and  some  are 

fond  of  dice, 
And  some  are  all  for  red  lips,  and  pretty 

lasses'  eyes; 


224  CAPTAIN  STBATTON'8  FANCY 

But  a  right  Jamaica  puncheon  is  a  finer 

prize 
To  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh  some  that's  good  and  godly  ones  they 

hold  that  it's  a  sin 
To  troll  the  jolly  bowl  around,  and  let  the 

dollars  spin; 
But  I'm  for  toleration  and  for  drinking  at 

an  inn, 
Says  the  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 

Oh  some  are  sad  and  wretched  folk  that  go 

in  silken  suits, 
And  there's  a  mort  of  wicked  rogues  that 

live  in  good  reputes; 
So  I'm  for  drinking  honestly,  and  dying  hi 

my  boots, 
Like  an  old  bold  mate  of  Henry  Morgan. 


AN  OLD  SONG  RE-SUNG 

I  SAW  a  ship  a-sailing,  a-sailing,  a-sailing,  ~/ 

•' '  t 

With  emeralds  and  rubies  and  sapphires  in 

her  hold;V 
And  a  .bosun  in  a  blue  coat  bawling  at  the 

railing,  /A- 
Piping  through  a  silver  call  that  had  a  chain. 

of  gold ;    \f 

The  summer  wind  was  failing  and  the  tall 

/      /        ix 
ship  rolled.    ^ 

" 
I     saw     a     ship     a-steering,      a-steering, 

a-steering,  ^ 
With  roses  in  red  thread  worked  upon  her 

sails;  v 
With  sacks  of  purple  amethysts,  the  spoils 

of  buccaneering,   ^ 

225 


226  AN  OLD   SONG   RE- SUNG 

Skins  of  musky  yellow  wine,   and  silks  in 

bales,  V 
Her  merry  men  were  cheering,  hauling  on 

the  brails.  V 

I  saw  a  ship  a-sinking,  a-sinking,  a-sinking, 
With  glittering  sea-water  splashing  on  her 

decks,  V^ 
With    seamen    in    her    spirit-room    singing 

songs  and  drinking,   ^ 
Pulling  claret  bottles  down,   and  knocking 

off  the  necks,  V 
The  broken  glass  was  chinking  as  she  sank 

among  the  wrecks.  V 


ST.  MARY'S  BELLS 

IT'S  pleasant  in  Holy  Mary 

By  San  Marie  lagoon, 

The  bells  they  chime  and  jingle 

From  dawn  to  afternoon. 

They  rhyme  and  chime  and  mingle, 

They  pulse  and  boom  and  beat, 

And  the  laughing  bells  are  gentle 

And  the  mournful  bells  are  sweet. 

Oh,  who  are  the  men  that  ring  them, 
The  bells  of  San  Marie, 
Oh,  who  but  sonsie  seamen 
Come  in  from  over  sea, 
And  merrily  in  the  belfries 
They  rock  and  sway  and  hale, 
And  send  the  bells  a-j  angle, 
And  down  the  lusty  ale. 

227 


228  ST.  MARY'S  BELLS 

It's  pleasant  in  Holy  Mary 

To  hear  the  beaten  bells 

Come  booming  into  music, 

Which  throbs,  and  clangs,  and  swells, 

From  sunset  till  the  daybreak, 

From  dawn  to  afternoon. 

In  port  of  Holy  Mary 

On  San  Marie  lagoon. 


LONDON  TOWN 

OH  London  Town's  a  fine  town,  and  Lon- 
don sights  are  rare, 

And  London  ale  is  right  ale,  and  brisk's  the 
London  air, 

And  busily  goes  the  world  there,  but  crafty 
grows  the  mind, 

And  London  Town  of  all  towns  I'm  glad  to 
leave  behind. 

Then  hey  for  croft  and  hop-yard,  and  hill, 

and  field,  and  pond, 
With  Breden   Hill  before  me  and  Malvern 

Hill  beyond. 
The  hawthorn  white  i'  the  hedgerow,  and 

all  the  spring's  attire 
In  the  comely  land  of  Teme  and  Lugg,  and 

Clent,  and  Glee,  and  Wyre. 

229 


230  LONDON  TOWN 

Oh  London  girls  are  brave  girls,  in  silk  and 

cloth  o'  gold, 
And   London   shops   are  rare  shops,   where 

gallant  things  are  sold, 
And    bonnily    clinks    the    gold    there,    but 

drowsily  blinks  the  eye, 
And  London  Town  of  all  towns  I'm  glad  to 

hurry  by. 

Then,   hey   for   covert  and  woodland,   and 

ash  and  elm  and  oak, 
Tewkesbury  inns,  and  Malvern  roofs,  and 

Worcester  chimney  smoke, 
The  apple  trees  in  the  orchard,  the  cattle  in 

the  byre, 
And   all   the   land   from   Ludlow   town   to 

Bredon  church's  spire. 

Oh  London  tunes  are  new  tunes,  and  Lon- 
don books  are  wise, 


LONDON  TOWN  231 

And  London  plays  are  rare  plays,  and  fine 

to  country  eyes, 
But  craftily    fares    the   knave    there,    and 

wickedly  fares  the  Jew, 
And  London  Town  of  all  towns  I'm  glad  to 

hurry  through. 

So  hey  for  the  road,  the  west  road,  by  mill 

and  forge  and  fold, 
Scent  of  the  fern  and  song  of  the  lark  by 

brook,  and  field,  and  wold, 
To  the  comely  folk  at  the  hearth-stone  and 

the  talk  beside  the  fire, 
In  the  hearty  land,  where  I  was  bred,  my 

land  of  heart's  desire. 


THE  EMIGRANT 

GOING  by  Daly's  shanty  I  heard  the  boys 

within 
Dancing  the  Spanish  hornpipe  to  Driscoll's 

violin, 
I   heard   the  sea-boots   shaking   the  rough 

planks  of  the  floor, 
But  I  was  going  westward,  I  hadn't  heart 

for  more. 

All  down  the  windy  village  the  noise  rang 

in  my  ears, 
Old  sea  boots  stamping,  shuffling,  it  brought 

the  bitter  tears, 
The  old  tune  piped  and  quavered,  the  lilts 

came  clear  and  strong, 
But  I  was  going  westward,  I  couldn't  join 

the  song. 

232 


THE  EMIGRANT  233 

There  were  the  grey  stone  houses,  the  night 

wind  blowing  keen, 
The    hill-sides    pale    with    moonlight,    the 

young  corn  springing  green, 

/ 

The  hearth  nooks  lit  and  kindly,  with  dear 

friends  good  to  see, 

C  \ 

But  I  was  going  westward,  and  the  ship 

^/- waited  me. 


PORT  OF  HOLY  PETER 

THE  blue  laguna  rocks  and  quivers, 

Dull  gurgling  eddies  twist  and  spin, 
The  climate  does  for  people's  livers, 
It's  a  nasty  place  to  anchor  in 
Is  Spanish  port, 
Fever  port, 
Port  of  Holy  Peter. 

The  town  begins  on  the  sea-beaches, 

And   the   town's   mad   with   the   stinging 

flies, 

The  drinking  water's  mostly  leeches, 
It's  a  far  remove  from  Paradise 
Is  Spanish  port, 
Fever  port, 
Port  of  Holy  Peter. 

234 


PORT  OF  HOLY  PETER  235 

There's  sand-bagging  and  throat-slitting, 

And  quiet  graves  in  the  sea  slime, 
Stabbing,  of  course,  and  rum-hitting, 
Dirt,  and  drink,  and  stink,  and  crime, 
In  Spanish  port, 
Fever  port, 
Port  of  Holy  Peter. 

All  the  day  the  wind's  blowing 

From  the  sick  swamp  below  the  hills, 
All  the  night  the  plague's  growing, 
And  the  dawn  brings  the  fever  chills, 
In  Spanish  port, 
Fever  port, 
Port  of  Holy  Peter. 

You  get  a  thirst  there's  no  slaking, 
You  get  the  chills  and  fever-shakes, 

Tongue  yellow  and  head  aching, 
And  then  the  sleep  that  never  wakes. 


236  PORT  OF  HOLY  PETER 

And  all  the  year  the  heat's  baking, 
The  sea  rots  and  the  earth  quakes, 
In  Spanish  port, 
Fever  port, 
Port  of  Holy  Peter. 


BEAUTY 

I  HAVE  seen  dawn  and  sunset  on  moors  and 

windy  hills 
Coming    in    solemn    beauty    like    slow    old 

tunes  of  Spain : 
I   have   seen   the   lady   April   bringing   the 

daffodils, 
Bringing  the  springing  grass  and  the  soft 

warm  April  rain. 

I  have  heard  the  song  of  the  blossoms  and 

the  old  chant  of  the  sea, 
And    seen    strange    lands    from    under    the 

arched  white  sails  of  ships; 
But  the  loveliest  things  of  beauty  God  ever 

has  showed  to  me, 
Are  her  voice,  and  her  hair,  and  eyes,  and 

the  dear  red  curve  of  her  lips. 

237 


THE  SEEKERS 

FRIENDS    and    loves    we    have    none,    nor 

wealth  nor  blessed  abode, 
But  the  hope  of  the  City  of  God  at  the 

other  end  of  the  road. 

Not  for  us  are  content,  and  quiet,  and  peace 

of  mind, 
For  we  go  seeking  a  city  that  we  shall  never 

find. 

There  is  no  solace  on  earth  for  us  —  for 

such  as  we- 
Who  search  for  a  hidden  city  that  we  shall 

never  see. 

238 


THE  SEEKERS  239 

Only  the  road  and  the  dawn,  the  sun,  the 

wind,  and  the  rain, 
And  the  watch  fire  under  stars,  and  sleep, 

and  the  road  again. 

We  seek  the  City  of  God,  and  the  haunt 

where  beauty  dwells, 
And  we  find  the  noisy  mart  and  the  sound 

of  burial  bells. 

Never  the  golden  city,  where  radiant  people 

meet, 
But  the  dolorous  town  where  mourners  are 

going  about  the  street. 

We  travel  the  dusty  road  till  the  light  of 

the  day  is  dim, 
And  sunset  shows  us  spires  away  on  the 

world's  rim. 


240  THE  SEEKERS 

We  travel  from  dawn  to  dusk,  till  the  day 

is  past  and  by, 
Seeking  the  Holy  City  beyond  the  rim  of 

the  sky. 

Friends  and  loves  we  have  none,  nor  wealth 

nor  blest  abode, 
But  the  hope  of  the  City  of  God  at  the 

other  end  of  the  road. 


PRAYER 

WHEN  the  last  sea  is  sailed,  when  the  last 

shallow's  charted, 
When  the  last  field  is  reaped,  and  the  last 

harvest  stored, 
When  the  last  fire  is  out  and  the  last  guest 

departed, 
Grant  the  last  prayer  that  I  shall  pray,  be 

good  to  me,  O  Lord. 

And  let  me  pass  in  a  night  at  sea,  a  night 

of  storm  and  thunder, 
In  the  loud  crying  of  the  wind  through  sail 

and  rope  and  spar, 
Send  me  a  ninth  great  peaceful  wave  to 

drown  and  roll  me  under 
To  the  cold  tunny-fish's  home  where  the 

drowned  galleons  are. 

241 


242  PRATER 

And  in  the  dim  green  quiet  place  far  out  of 

sight  and  hearing, 
Grant  I  may  hear  at.,  whiles  the  wash  and 

thresh  of  the  sea-foam 
About  the  fine  keen  bows  of  the  stately 

clippers  steering 
Towards  the  lone  northern  star  and  the  fair 

ports  of  home. 


DAWN 

THE  dawn  comes  cold :  the  haystack  smokes, 

The  green  twigs  crackle  in  the  fire, 
The  dew  is  dripping  from  the  oaks, 
And  sleepy  men  bear  milking-yokes 
Slowly  towards  the  cattle-byre. 

Down  in  the  town  a  clock  strikes  six, 

The  grey  east  heaven  burns  and  glows, 
The  dew  shines  on  the  thatch  of  ricks, 
A  slow  old  crone  comes  gathering  sticks, 
The  red  cock  in  the  ox-yard  crows. 

Beyond  the  stack  where  we  have  lain 
The  road  runs  twisted  like  a  snake 
(The  white  road  to  the  land  of  Spain), 
The  road  that  we  must  foot  again, 

Though  the  feet  halt  and  the  heart  ache. 

243 


LAUGH  AND  BE  MERRY 

v   LAUGH  and  be  merry,  remember,  better  the 

world  with  a  song, 
Better  the  world  with  a  blow  in  the  teeth  of 

a  wrong. 
Laugh,  for  the  time  is  brief,  a  thread  the 

length  of  a  span. 
Laugh  and  be  proud  to  belong  to  the  old 

proud  pageant  of  man. 

Laugh  and  be  merry :    remember,  in  olden 

time. 
God  made  Heaven  and  Earth  for  joy  He 

took  in  a  rhyme, 
Made  them,  and  filled  them  full  with  the 

strong  red  wine  of  His  mirth, 
The  splendid   joy  of   the  stars :  the  joy  of 

the  earth. 

244 


LAUGH  AND  BE  MERRY  245 

So  we  must  laugh  and  drink  from  the  deep 

blue  cup  of  the  sky, 
Join   the  jubilant  song  of  the  great  stars 

sweeping  by, 
Laugh,  and  battle,  and  work,  and  drink  of  the 

wine  outpoured 
In  the  dear  green  earth,  the  sign  of  the  joy 

of  the  Lord. 

Laugh  and  be  merry  together,  like  brothers 

akin, 
Guesting  awhile  in  the  rooms  of  a  beautiful 

inn, 
Glad  till  the  dancing  stops,  and  the  lilt  of 

the  music  ends. 
Laugh  till  the  game  is  played;   and  be  you 

merry,  my  friends.      -f 


JUNE  TWILIGHT 

THE  twilight  comes;  the  sun 

Dips  down  and  sets, 
The  boys  have  done 

Play  at  the  nets. 

In  a  warm  golden  glow 
The  woods  are  steeped. 

The  shadows  grow; 
The  bat  has  cheeped. 

Sweet  smells  the  new-mown  hay; 

The  mowers  pass 
Home,  each  his  way, 

Through  the  grass. 

246 


JUNE  TWILIGHT  247 

The  night-wind  stirs  the  fern, 

A  night-jar  spins; 
The  windows  burn 

In  the  inns. 

Dusky  it  grows.    The  moon! 

The  dews  descend. 
Love,  can  this  beauty  in  our  hearts 

End? 


ROADWAYS 

ONE  road  leads  to  London, 
One  road  runs  to  Wales, 

My  road  leads  me  seawards 
To  the  white  dipping  sails. 

One  road  leads  to  the  river, 
As  it  goes  singing  slow; 

My  road  leads  to  shipping, 
Where  the  bronzed  sailors  go. 

P 

Leads  me,  lures  me,  calls  me 

To  salt  green  tossing  sea ; 
A  road  without  earth's  road-dust 
Is  the  right  road  for  me. 

MM* 

A  wet  road  heaving,  shining, 
And  wild  with  seagulls'  cries, 

248 


.ROADWAYS  249 

A  mad  salt  sea-wind  blowing 
The  salt  spray  in  my  eyes. 

My  road  calls  me,  lures  me 
West,  east,  south,  and  north ; 

Most  roads  lead  men  homewards, 
My  road  leads  me  forth 

To  add  more  miles  to  the  tally 

Of  grey  miles  left  behind, 
In  quest  of  that  one  beauty 

God  put  me  here  to  find. 


MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

THE  perfect  disc  of  the  sacred  moon 

Through  still  blue  heaven  serenely  jswims, 
And  the  lone  bird's  liquid  music  brims 

The  peace  of  the  night  with  a  perfect  tune. 

This  is  that  holiest  night  of  the  year 

When  (the  mowers  say)  may  be  heard  and 

seen 
The  ghostly  court  of  the  English  queen, 

Who  rides  to  harry  and  hunt  the  deer. 

And  the  woodland  creatures  cower  awake, 
A  strange  unrest  is  on  harts  and  does, 
For  the  maiden  Dian  a-hunting  goes, 

And  the  trembling    deer    are   afoot  in  the 
brake. 

250 


MIDSUMMER  NIGHT  251 

They  start  at  a  shaken  leaf :   the  sound 
Of  a  dry  twig  snapped  by  a  squirrel's  foot 
Is  a  nameless  dread:    and  to  them  the 
hoot 

Of  a  mousing  owl  is  the  cry  of  a  hound. 

Oh  soon  the  forest  will  ring  with  cries, 
The   dim   green   coverts   will   flash :    the 

grass 
Will  glow  as  the  radiant  hunters  pass 

After  the  quarry  with  burning  eyes. 

The  hurrying  feet  will  range  unstayed 
Of  questing  goddess  and  hunted  fawn, 
Till  the  east  is  grey  with  the  sacred  dawn, 

And  the  red  cock  wakens  the  milking  maid. 


THE  HARPER'S  SONG 

THIS  sweetness  trembling  from  the  strings 
The  music  of  my  troublous  lute 
Hath  timed  Herodias'  daughter's  foot ; 
Setting  a-clink  her  ankle-rings 
Whenas  she  danced  to  feasted  kings. 

Where  gemmed  apparel  burned  and  caught 
The  sunset  'neath  the  golden  dome, 
To  the  dark  beauties  of  old  Rome 
My  sorrowful  lute  hath  haply  brought 
Sad  memories  sweet  with  tender  thought. 

When  night  had  fallen  and  lights  and  fires 
Were  darkened  in  the  homes  of  men, 
Some  sighing  echo  stirred :  —  and  then 
The  old  cunning  wakened  from  the  wires 
The  old  sorrows  and  the  old  desires. 

252 


THE  HARPER'S  SONG  253 

Dead  Kings  in  long  forgotten  lands, 
And  all  dead  beauteous  women ;   some 
Whose  pride  imperial  hath  become 
Old  armour  rusting  in  the  sands 
And  shards  of  iron  in  dusty  hands, 

Have  heard  my  lyre's  soft  rise  and  fall 
Go  trembling  down  the  paven  ways, 
Till  every  heart  was  all  ablaze  — 

Hasty  each  foot  —  to  obey  the  call 

To  triumph  or  to  funeral. 

Could  I  begin  again  the  slow 

Sweet  mournful  music  filled  with  tears, 
Surely  the  old,  dead,  dusty  ears 

Would   hear;    the  old   drowsy  eyes  would 
glow, 

Old  memories  come;   old  hopes  and  fears, 

And  time  restore  the  long  ago. 


THE  GENTLE   LADY 

So  beautiful,  so  dainty-sweet, 

So  like  a  lyre's  delightful  touch  — 

A  beauty  perfect,  ripe,  complete 

That  art's  own  hand  could  only  smutch 

And  nature's  self  not  better  much. 

So  beautiful,  so  purely  wrought, 
Like  a  fair  missal  penned  with  hymns, 
So  gentle,  so  surpassing  thought  - 
A  beauteous  soul  in  lovely  limbs, 
A  lantern  that  an  angel  trims. 

So  simple-sweet,  without  a  sin, 
Like  gentle  music  gently  timed, 
Like  rhyme-words  coming  aptly  in, 
To  round  a  moone'd  poem  rhymed 
To  tunes  the  laughing  bells  have  chimed. 

254 


THE  DEAD  KNIGHT 

THE  cleanly  rush  of  the  mountain  air, 
And  the  mumbling,  grumbling  humble-bees, 
Are  the  only  things  that  wander  there. 
The  pitiful  bones  are  laid  at  ease, 
The  grass  has  grown  in  his  tangled  hah1, 
And  a  rambling  bramble  binds  his  knees. 

To  shrieve  his  soul  from  the  pangs  of  hell, 
The  only  requiem  bells  that  rang 
Were  the  harebell  and  the  heather  bell. 
Hushed  he  is  with  the  holy  spell 
In  the  gentle  hymn  the  wind  sang, 
And  he  lies  quiet,  and  sleeps  well. 
He  is  bleached  and  blanched  with  the  sum- 
mer sun; 
The  misty  rain  and  the  cold  dew 

255 


256  THE  DEAD  KNIGHT 

Have  altered  him  from  the  kingly  one 
Whom  his  lady  loved,  and  his  men  knew, 
And  dwindled  him  to  a  skeleton. 

The  vetches  have  twined  about  his  bones, 

The  straggling  ivy  twists  and  creeps 

In  his  eye-sockets :  the  nettle  keeps 

Vigil  about  him  while  he  sleeps. 

Over  his  body  the  wind  moans 

With  a  dreary  tune  throughout  the  day, 

In  a  chorus  wistful,  eerie,  thin 

As  the  gulls'  cry,  as  the  cry  in  the  bay, 

The  mournful  word  the  seas  say 

When  tides  are  wandering  out  or  in. 


SORROW  OF  MYDATH 

WEARY  the  cry  of  the  wind  is,  weary  the 

sea, 
Weary   the   heart   and   the  mind  and  the 

body  of  me, 
Would  I  were  out  of  it,  done  with  it,  would 

I  could  be 
A   white   gull   crying  along  the   desolate 

sands. 

Outcast,  derelict  soul  in  a  body  accurst, 
Standing  drenched  with  the  spindrift,  stand- 
ing athirst, 
For  the  cool  green  waves  of  death  to  arise 

and  burst 

In  a  tide  of  quiet  for  me  on  the  desolate 
sands. 

257 


258  SORROW  OF  MYDATH 

Would  that  the  waves  and  the  long  white 

hair  of  the  spray 
Would  gather  in  splendid  terror,  and  blot 

me  away 
To  the  sunless  place  of  the  wrecks  where 

the  waters  sway 
Gently,    dreamily,    quietly   over   desolate 

sands. 


TWILIGHT 

TWILIGHT  it  is,  and  the  far  woods  are  dim, 

and  the  rooks  cry  and  call. 
Down  in  the  valley  the  lamps,  and  the  mist, 

and  a  star  over  all, 
There  by  the  rick,  where  they  thresh,  is  the 

drone  at  an  end, 
Twilight  it  is,  and  I  travel  the  road  with 

my  friend. 

I  think  of  the  friends  who  are  dead,  who 

were  dear  long  ago  in  the  past, 
Beautiful  friends  who  are  dead,   though  I 

know  that  death  cannot  last; 
Friends  with  the  beautiful  eyes  that  the  dust 

has  defiled, 
Beautiful  souls  who  were  gentle  when  I  was 

a  child. 

259 


INVOCATION 

0  WANDERER  into  many  brains, 
O  spark  the  emperor's  purple  hides, 
You  sow  the  dusk  with  fiery  grains 
When  the  gold  horseman  rides. 
0  beauty  on  the  darkness  hurled, 
Be  it  through  me  you  shame  the  world. 


260 


POSTED  AS  MISSING 

UNDER  all  her  topsails  she  trembled  like  a 

stag, 
The  wind  made  a  ripple  in  her  bonny  red 


They  cheered  her  from  the  shore  and  they 


j\  V 

cheered  her  from  the  pier, 

'And  under  all  her  topsails  she  trembled  like 
a  deer. 


So   she    passed   swaying,  where   the   green 

seas  run, 
Her  wind-steadied  topsails  were  stately  in 

the  sun; 
There  was   glitter   on   the  water  from   her 

red  port  light, 
So    she    passed   swaying,   till   she  was  out 

of  sight. 

261 


262  POSTED  A3  MISSING 

Long  and  long  ago  it  was,  a  weary  time 
it  is, 

The  bones  of  her  sailor-men  are  coral  plants 
by  this; 

Coral  plants,  and  shark-weed,  and  a  mer- 
maid's comb, 

And  if  the  fishers  net  them  they  never 
bring  them  home. 

It's  rough  on  sailors'  women.  They  have 
to  mangle  hard, 

And  stitch  at  dungarees  till  their  finger- 
ends  are  scarred, 

Thinking  of  the  sailor-men  who  sang  among 
the  crowd, 

Hoisting  of  her  topsails  when  she  sailed  so 
proud. 


A  CREED 

I  HOLD  that  when  a  person  dies 
His  soul  returns  again  to  earth; 

Arrayed  in  some  new  flesh-disguise 
Another  mother  gives  him  birth. 

With  sturdier  limbs  and  brighter  brain 

The  old  soul  takes  the  roads  again. 

Such  is  my  own  belief  and  trust; 

This  hand,  this  hand  that  holds  the  pen, 
Has  many  a  hundred  times  been  dust 

And  turned,  as  dust,  to  dust  again; 
These  eyes  of  mine  have  blinked  and  shone 
In  Thebes,  in  Troy,  in  Babylon. 

All  that  I  rightly  think  or  do, 

Or  make,  or  spoil,  or  bless,  or  blast, 

263 


264  A    CREED 

Is  curse  or  blessing  justly  due 

For  sloth  or  effort  in  the  past. 
My  life's  a  statement  of  the  sum 
Of  vice  indulged,  or  overcome. 

I  know  that  in  my  lives  to  be 

My  sorry  heart  will  ache  and  burn, 

And  worship,  unavailingly, 

The  woman  whom  I  used  to  spurn, 

And  shake  to  see  another  have 

The  love  I  spurned,  the  love  she  gave. 

And  I  shall  know,  in  angry  words, 
In  gibes,  and  mocks,  and  many  a  tear, 

A  carrion  flock  of  horning-birds, 

The  gibes  and  scorns  I  uttered  here. 

The  brave  word  that  I  failed  to  speak 

Will  brand  me  dastard  on  the  cheek. 

And  as  I  wander  on  the  roads 

I  shall  be  helped  and  healed  and  blessed; 


A  CREED  265 

Dear  words  shall  cheer  and  be  as  goads 

To  urge  to  heights  before  unguessed. 
My  road  shall  be  the  road  I  made; 
All  that  I  gave  shall  be  repaid. 

So  shall  I  fight,  so  shall  I  tread, 
In  this  long  war  beneath  the  stars; 

So  shall  a  glory  wreathe  my  head, 
So  shall  I  faint  and  show  the  scars, 

Until  this  case,  this  clogging  mould, 

Be  smithied  all  to  kingly  gold. 


WHEN  BONY  DEATH 

WHEN  bony  Death  has  chilled  her  gentle 

blood, 
And  dimmed  the  brightness  of  her  wistful 

eyes, 

And  changed  her  glorious  beauty  into  mud 
By  his  old  skill  in  hateful  wizardries; 

When  an  old  lichened  marble  strives  to  tell 
How  sweet  a  grace,  how  red  a  lip  was 

hers; 
When  rheumy  grey-beards  say,  "I  knew  her 

well," 
Showing  the  grave  to  curious  worshippers ; 

When  all  the  roses  that  she  sowed  in  me 
Have   dripped   their   crimson   petals   and 
decayed, 

266 


WHEN  BONY  DEATH  267 

Leaving  no  greenery  on  any  tree 
That  her  dear  hands  in  my  heart's  garden 
laid, 

Then  grant,  old  Time,  to  my  green  moulder- 
ing skull, 

These  songs  may  keep  her  memory  beauti- 
ful. 


THE  WEST  WIND 

IT'S  a  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full   of 

birds'  cries; 
I  never  hear  the  west  wind  but  tears  are  in 

my  eyes. 
For  it  comes  from  the  west  lands,  the  old 

brown  hills, 
And  April's  in  the  west  wind,  and  daffodils. 

It's  a  fine  land,  the  west  land,  for  hearts  as 

tired  as  mine, 
Apple  orchards  blossom  there,  and  the  air's 

like  wine. 
There  is  cool  green  grass  there,  where  men 

may  lie  at  rest, 
And  the  thrushes  are  in  song  there,  fluting 

from  the  nest. 

268 


THE    WEST    WIND  269 

"Will  you  not  come  home,  brother?    You 

have  been  long  away. 
It's  April,  and  blossom  time,  and  white  is 

the  spray: 
And  bright  is  the  sun,  brother,  and  warm  is 

the  rain, 
Will  you  not  come  home,  brother,  home  to 

us  again? 

The  young  corn  is  green,  brother,  where  the 

rabbits  run; 
It's  blue  sky,  and  white  clouds,  and  warm 

rain  and  sun. 
It's  song  to  a  man's  soul,  brother,  fire  to  a 

man's  brain, 
To  hear  the  wild  bees  and  see  the  merry 

spring  again. 

Larks    are    singing    in    the    west,    brother, 
above  the  green  wheat, 


270  THE    WEST    WIND 

So  will  you  not  come  home,  brother,  and 

rest  your  tired  feet? 
I've  a  balm  for  bruised  hearts,  brother,  sleep 

for  aching  eyes," 
Says  the  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of 

birds'  cries. 

It's  the  white  road  westwards  is  the  road  I 

must  tread 
To  the  green  grass,  the  cool  grass,  and  rest 

for  heart  and  head, 
To  the  violets  and  the  brown  brooks  and 

the  thrushes'  song 
In   the  fine  land,   the  west  land,  the  land 

where  I  belong. 


HER  HEART 

HER  heart  is  always  doing  lovely  things, 
Filling    my    wintry    mind    with    simple 
flowers ; 

Playing  sweet  tunes  on  my  untuned  strings, 
Delighting  all  my  undelightful  hours. 

She  plays  me  like  a  lute,  what  tune  she  will, 
No   string   in   me   but    trembles   at   her 

touch, 

Shakes  into  sacred  music,  or  is  still, 
Trembles  or  stops,  or  swells,  her  skill  is 

such. 

And  in  the  dusty  tavern  of-jny_sQul- 
Where  filthy  lusts  drink  witches'  brew  for 

wine, 

271 


272  HER    HEART 

Her  gentle  hand  still  keeps  me  from  the 

bowl, 

Still  keeps  me  man,  saves  me  from  being 
swine. 

All  grace  in  me,  all  sweetness  in  my  verse, 
Is  hers,  is  my  dear  girl's,  and  only  hers. 


BEING  HER  FRIEND 

BEING  her  friend,  I  do  not  care,  not  I, 
How  gods  or  men  may  wrong  me,  beat 
me  down ; 

Her  word's  sufficient  star  to  travel  by, 
I  count  her  quiet  praise  sufficient  crown. 

Being  her  friend,  I  do  not  covet  gold, 
Save  for  a  royal  gift  to  give  her  pleasure ; 

To  sit  with  her,  and  have  her  hand  to  hold, 
Is    wealth,    I    think,    surpassing    minted 
treasure. 

Being  her  friend,  I  only  covet  art, 
A  white  pure  flame  to  search  me  as  I 
trace 

In  crooked  letters  from  a  throbbing  heart 
The  hymn  to  beauty  written  on  her  face. 

273 


FRAGMENTS 

TROY  TOWN  is  covered  up  with  weeds, 
The  rabbits  and  the  pismires  brood 

On  broken  gold,  and  shards,  and  beads 
Where  Priam's  ancient  palace  stood. 

The  floors  of  many  a  gallant  house 
Are  matted  with  the  roots  of  grass; 

The  glow-worm  and  the  nimble  mouse 
Among  her  ruins  flit  and  pass. 

And  there,  in  orts  of  blackened  bone, 
The  widowed  Trojan  beauties  lie, 

And  Simois  babbles  over  stone 
And  waps  and  gurgles  to  the  sky. 

Once  there  were  merry  days  in  Troy, 
Her  chimneys  smoked  with  cooking  meals, 

The  passing  chariots  did  annoy 
The  sunning  housewives  at  their  wheels. 

274 


FRAGMENTS  275 

And  many  a  lovely  Trojan  maid 
Set  Trojan  lads  to  lovely  things; 

The  game  of  life  was  nobly  played, 
They  played  the  game  like  Queens  and 
Kings. 

So  that,  when  Troy  had  greatly  passed 

In  one  red  roaring  fiery  coal, 
The  courts  the  Grecians  overcast 

Became  a  city  in  the  soul. 

In  some  green  island  of  the  sea, 

Where  now  the  shadowy  coral  grows 

In  pride  and  pomp  and  empery 
The  courts  of  old  Atlantis  rose. 

In  many  a  glittering  house  of  glass 
The  Atlanteans  wandered  there; 

The  paleness  of  their  faces  was 
Like  ivory,  so  pale  they  were. 


276  FRAGMENTS 

And  hushed  they  were,  no  noise  of  words 
In  those  bright  cities  ever  rang; 

Only  their  thoughts,  like  golden  birds, 
About  their  chambers  thrilled  and  sang. 

They  knew  all  wisdom,  for  they  knew 
The  souls  of  those  Egyptian  Kings 

Who  learned,  in  ancient  Babilu, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  things. 

They  knew  all  beauty  —  when  they  thought 
The  air  chimed  like  a  stricken  lyre, 

The  elemental  birds  were  wrought, 
The  golden  birds  became  a  fire. 

And  straight  to  busy  camps  and  marts 
The  singing  flames  were  swiftly  gone; 

The  trembling  leaves  of  human  hearts 
Hid  boughs  for  them  to  perch  upon. 

And  men  in  desert  places,  men 
Abandoned,  broken,  sick  with  fears, 


FRAGMENTS  277 

Rose  singing,  swung  their  swords  agen, 
And  laughed  and  died  among  the  spears. 

The  green  and  greedy  seas  have  drowned 
That  city's  glittering  walls  and  towers, 

Her  sunken  minarets  are  crowned 
With  red  and  russet  water-flowers. 

In  towers  and  rooms  and  golden  courts 
The  shadowy  coral  lifts  her  sprays; 

The  scrawl  hath  gorged  her  broken  orts, 
The  shark  doth  haunt  her  hidden  ways. 

But,  at  the  falling  of  the  tide, 
The  golden  birds  still  sing  and  gleam, 

The  Atlanteans  have  not  died, 

Immortal  things  still  give  us  dream. 

The  dream  that  fires  man's  heart  to  make, 
To  build,  to  do,  to  sing  or  say 

A  beauty  Death  can  never  take, 
An  Adam  from  the  crumbled  clay. 


BORN  FOR  NOUGHT  ELSE 

BORN  for  nought  else,  for  nothing  but  for 
this, 

To  watch  the  soft  blood  throbbing  in  her 

throat, 

To  think  how  comely  sweet  her  body  is, 
And  learn  the  poem  of  her  face  by  rote. 

Born   for   nought   else   but   to   attempt   a 

rhyme 
That     shall     describe     her     womanhood 

aright, 

And  make  her  holy  to  the  end  of  Time, 
And    be   my    soul's    acquittal   in    God's 
sight. 

Born  for  nought  else  but  to  expressly  mark 
The  music  of  her  dear  delicious  ways; 

-       278 


BORN  FOB  NOUGHT  ELSE  279 

Born  but  to  perish  meanly  in  the  dark, 
Yet    born   to    be  the  man   to  sing  her 
praise. 

Born  for  nought  else :   there  is  a  spirit  tells 
My  lot's  a  King's,  being  born  for  nothing 
else. 


TEWKESBURY  ROAD 

IT  is  good  to  be  out  on  the  road,  and  going 

one  knows  not  where, 
Going  through  meadow  and  village,  one 

knows  not  whither  nor  why; 
Through  the  grey  light  drift  of  the  dust,  in 
^P    the  keen  cool  rush  of  the  air, 
Under  the  flying  white  clouds,  and  the 
broad  blue  lift  of  the  sky. 

And  to  halt  at  the  chattering  brook,  in  the 

tall  green  fern  at  the  brink 
Where  the  harebell  grows,  and  the  gorse, 
and  the  foxgloves  purple  and  white; 
Where    the    shy-eyed    delicate    deer    troop 

down  to  the  brook  to  drink 
When  the  stars  are  mellow  and  large  at 

the  coming  on  of  the  night. 
280 


TEWKSBURY  ROAD  281 

0,   to  feel  the  beat  of  the  rain,   and  the 

homely  smell  of  the  earth, 
Is  a  tune  for  the  blood  to  jig  to,  a  joy 

j>ast  power  of  words; 
And  the  blessed  green  comely  meadows  are 

all  a-ripple  with  mirth 
At  the  noise  of  the  lambs  at  play  and  the 
dear  wild  cry  of  the  birds. 


THE  DEATH  ROOMS 

MY  soul  has  many  an  old  decaying  room 
Hung  with  the  ragged  arras  of  the  past, 

Where  startled  faces  flicker  in  the  gloom, 
And  horrid  whispers  set  the  cheek  aghast. 

Those  dropping  rooms  are  haunted  by  a 

death, 
A    something    like    a    worm    gnawing    a 

brain, 

That  bids  me  heed  what  bitter  lesson  saith 
The  blind  wind  beating  on  the  window- 
pane. 

None  dwells  in  those  old  rooms:   none  ever 

can  — 

I  pass  them  through  at  night  with  hidden 
head; 

282 


THE  DEATH  BOOMS  283 

Lock'd  rotting  rooms  her  eyes  must  never 
scan, 

Floors  that  her  blessed  feet  must  never 
tread. 

Haunted  old  rooms:   rooms  she  must  never 

know, 
Where   death-ticks   knock   and   mouldering 

panels  glow. 


IGNORANCE 

SINCE  I  have  learned  Love's  shining  alpha- 
bet, 
And  spelled  in  ink  what's  writ  in  me  in 

flame, 

And  borne  her  sacred  image  richly  set 
Here  in  my  heart  to  keep  me  quit  of 
shame ; 

Since  I  have  learned  how  wise  and  passing 

wise 

Is  the  dear  friend  whose  beauty  I  extol, 
And  know  how  sweet  a  soul  looks  through 

the  eyes, 
That  are  so  pure  a  window  to  her  soul ; 

Since  I  have  learned  how  rare  a  woman 

shows 

284 


IGNORANCE  285 

As  much  in  all  she  does  as  in  her  looks, 
And   seen   the   beauty   of   her   shame   the 

rose, 
And  dim  the  beauty  writ  about  in  books ; 

All  I  have  learned,  and  can  learn,  shows  me 

this  — 
How  scant,  how  slight,  my  knowledge  of 

her  is. 


SEA  FEVER 

I  MUST  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the 

lonely  sea  and  the  sky, 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to 

steer  her  by; 
And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song 

and  the  white  sail's  shaking, 
And  a  grey  mist  on  the  sea's  face,  and  a 

grey  dawn  breaking, 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the 

call  of  the  running  tide 
Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not 

be  denied; 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  the  white 

clouds  flying, 
And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume, 

and  the  sea-gulls  crying. 

286 


SEA   FEVER  287 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the 
vagrant  gypsy  life, 

To  the  gull's  way  and  the  whale's  way 
where  the  wind's  like  a  whetted  knife ; 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  merry  yarn  from  a  laugh- 
ing fellow-rover, 

And  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when 
the  long  trick's  over. 


THE  WATCH  IN  THE  WOOD 

WHEN  Death  has  laid  her  in  his  quietude, 
And  dimmed  the  glow  of  her  benignant 

star, 

Her  tired  limbs  shall  rest  within  a  wood, 
In  a  green  glade  where  oaks  and  beeches 
are, 

Where  the  shy  fawns,  the  pretty  fawns,  the 

deer, 
With   mild   brown   eyes   shall   view   her 

spirit's  husk; 

The  sleeping  woman  of  her  will  appear, 
The  maiden  Dian  shining  through  the  dusk. 

And,  when  the  stars  are  white  as  twilight 

fails, 
And  the  green  leaves  are  hushed,  and  the 

winds  swoon, 

288 


THE   WATCH  IN  THE   WOOD  289 

The  calm  pure  thrilling  throats  of  nightin- 


Shall  hymn  her  sleeping  beauty  to  the 
moon. 

All  the  woods  hushed  —  save  for  a  dripping 
rose, 

All  the  woods  dim  —  save  where  a  glow- 
worm glows. 

Brimming  the  quiet  woods  with  holiness, 
The  lone  brown  birds  will  hymn  her  till 

the  dawn, 

The  delicate,  shy,  dappled  deer  will  press 
Soft    pitying  muzzles    on    her    swathed 
lawn. 

The  little  pretty  rabbits  running  by. 

Will    pause    among    the    dewy   grass   to 

peep, 
Their  thudding  hearts  affrighted  to  espy 

The  maiden  Dian  lying  there  asleep. 


290  THE  WATCH  IN  THE   WOOD 

Brown,    lustrous,    placid    eyes    of    sylvan 

things 

Will  wonder  at  the  quiet  in  her  face, 
While  from  the  thorny  branch  the  singer 

brings 
Beauty  and  peace  to  that  immortal  place. 

Until  the  grey  dawn  sets  the  woods  astir 
The  pure  birds'  thrilling  psalm  will  mourn 
for  her. 


C.  L.  M. 

IN  the  dark  womb  where  I  began 
My  mother's  life  made  me  a  man. 
Through  all  the  months  of  human  birth 
Her  beauty  fed  my  common  earth. 
I  cannot  see,  nor  breathe,  nor  stir, 
But  through  the  death  of  some  of  her. 

Down  in  the  darkness  of  the  grave 
She  cannot  see  the  life  she  gave. 
For  all  her  love,  she  cannot  tell 
Whether  I  use  it  ill  or  well, 
Nor  knock  at  dusty  doors  to  find 
Her  beauty  dusty  in  the  mind. 

If  the  grave's  gates  could  be  undone, 
She  would  not  know  her  little  son, 
I  am  so  grown.     If  we  should  meet 

291 


292  c.  L.  M. 

She  would  pass  by  me  in  the  street, 
Unless  my  soul's  face  let  her  see 
My  sense  of  what  she  did  for  me. 

What  have  I  done  to  keep  in  mind 
My  debt  to  her  and  womankind? 
What  woman's  happier  life  repays 
Her  for  those  months  of  wretched  days? 
For  all  my  mouthless  body  leeched 
Ere  Birth's  releasing  hell  was  reached? 

What  have  I  done,  or  tried,  or  said 
In  thanks  to  that  dear  woman  dead? 
Men  triumph  over  women  still, 
Men  trample  women's  rights  at  will, 

And  man's  lust  roves  the  world  untamed. 
*  *  *  * 

O  grave,  keep  shut  lest  I  be  shamed. 


WASTE 

No  rose  but  fades :  no  glory  but  must  pass : 
No  hue  but  dims :  no  precious  silk  but 
frets. 

Her  beauty  must  go  underneath  the  grass, 
Under  the  long  roots  of  the  violets. 

0,  many  glowing  beauties  Time  has  hid 
In    that    dark,    blotting   box    the    villain 

sends. 

He  covers  over  with  a  coffin-lid 
Mothers  and  sons,   and  foes  and  lovely 
friends. 

Maids  that  were  redly-lipped  and  comely- 
skinned, 

Friends  that  deserved  a  sweeter  bed  than 
clay, 

293 


294  WASTE 

All    are    as    blossoms    blowing    down    the 

wind, 

Things    the    old    envious    villain    sweeps 
away. 

And     though     the    mutterer    laughs     and 

church  bells  toll, 
Death  brings  another  April  to  the  soul. 


THIRD  MATE 

ALL  the  sheets  are  clacking,  all  the  blocks 

are  whining, 
The  sails  are  frozen  stiff  and  the  wetted 

decks  are  shining; 
The  reef's  in  the  topsails,  and  it's  coming 

on  to  blow, 
And  I  think  of  the  dear  girl  I  left  long 

ago. 

Grey  were  her  eyes,  and  her  hair  was  long 

and  bonny, 
Golden  was  her  hah1,   like  the  wild  bees' 

honey. 
And  I  was  but  a  dog,  and  a  mad  one  to 

despise, 
The  gold  of  her  hair  and  the  grey  of  her 

eyes. 

295 


296  THIRD  MATE 

There's  the  sea  before  me,  and  my  home's 

behind  me, 
And  beyond  there  the  strange  lands  where 

nobody  will  mind  me, 
No  one  but  the  girls  with  the  paint  upon 

their  cheeks, 
Who  sell  away  their  beauty  to  whomsoever 

seeks. 

There'll   be   drink  and   women   there,   and 

songs  and  laughter, 
Peace  from  what  is  past  and  from  all  that 

follows  after; 
And  a  fellow  will  forget  how  a  woman  lies 

awake, 
Lonely  in  the  night  watch  crying  for  his 

sake. 

Black  it  blows  and  bad  and  it  howls  like 
slaughter, 


THIRD  MATE  297 

And  the  ship  she  shudders  as  she  takes  the 
water. 

Hissing  flies  the  spindrift  like  a  wind- 
blown smoke, 

And  I  think  of  a  woman  and  a  heart  I 
broke. 


THE  WILD  DUCK 

TWILIGHT.    Red  in  the  west. 

Dimness.    A  glow  on  the  wood. 

The  teams  plod  home  to  rest. 

The  wild  duck  come  to  glean. 

O  souls  not  understood, 

What  a  wild  cry  in  the  pool; 

What    things    have    the    farm    ducks 

seen 

C 
That  they  cry  so  —  huddle  and  cry  ? 


Only  the  soul  that  goes. 

r 

Eager.    Eager.    Flying. 

Over  the  globe  of  the  moon, 

• 
Over  the  wood  that  glows. 

Wings  linked.    Necks  a-strain, 

298 


THE   WILD  DUCK  299 

A  rush  and  a  wild  crying. 
*  *  * 

A  cry  of  the  long  pain 

In  the  reeds  of  a  steel  lagoon. 

In  a  land  that  no  man  knows. 


CHRISTMAS,   1903 

O,  THE  sea  breeze  will  be  steady,  and  the 

tall  ship's  going  trim, 
And   the   dark   blue   skies   are  paling,   and 

the  white  stars  burning  dim ; 
The  long  night  watch  is  over,  and  the  long 

sea-roving  done, 
And  yonder  light  is  the  Start  Point  light, 

and  yonder  comes  the  sun. 

O,  we  have  been  with  the  Spaniards,  and 

far  and  long  on  the  sea; 
But  there  are   the  twisted  chimneys,  and 

the  gnarled  old  inns  on  the  quay. 
The  wind  blows  keen  as  the  day  breaks, 

the  roofs  are  white  with  the  rime, 
And  the  church-bells  ring  as  the  sun  comes 

up  to  call  men  in  to  Prime. 

300 


CHRISTMAS,   1903  301 

The  church-bells  rock  and  jangle,  and  there 
is  peace  on  the  earth. 

Peace  and  good  will  and  plenty  and  Christ- 
mas games  and  mirth. 

0,  the  gold  glints  bright  on  the  wind-vane 
as  it  shifts  above  the  squire's  house, 

And  the  water  of  the  bar  of  Salcombe  is 
muttering  about  the  bows. 

0,     the    salt    sea    tide    of    Salcombe,    it 

wrinkles  into  wisps  of  foam, 
And  the  church-bells  ring  in   Salcombe  to 

ring  poor  sailors  home. 
The    belfry    rocks    as    the    bells    ring,    the 

chimes  are  merry  as  a  song, 
They    ring    home    wandering    sailors    who 

have  been  homeless  long. 


THE  WORD 

MY  friend,  my  bonny  friend,  when  we  are 

old, 
And  hand  in  hand  go  tottering  down  the 

hill, 

May  we  be  rich  in  love's  refined  gold, 
May  love's  gold  coin  be  current  with  us 
still. 

May   love    be    sweeter    for    the    vanished 

days, 
And   your   most   perfect   beauty   still   as 

dear 
As    when    your    troubled    singer    stood    at 

gaze 

In   the   dear   March   of   a   most    sacred 
year. 

302 


THE  WOBD  303 

May  what  we  are  be  all  we  might  have 

been, 

And  that  potential,  perfect,  0  my  friend, 
And   may    there   still   be   many   sheafs   to 

glean 
In  our  love's  acre,  comrade,  till  the  end. 

And  may  we  find,  when  ended  is  the  page, 
Death  but  a  tavern  on  our  pilgrimage. 


i 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


JUN  22  194& 
DEC  2  9  1945' 


MAY   1  2  1947 


JUN  15 
APR  1  5-1919 
.!«» 


rn 

6025 


Masefield  - 
Tne  story 
of  a  round  house  and 


other  poems. 


.569  932  7 


